It’s a beautiful day at the park and I’m pushing my three year old boy on the swings. His long legs are lightly brushing against the ground, sticking out of the baby seat he still insists on using.
His steady whoops of joy bring a smile to my face, before the familiar hum of anxiety vibrates, sparking the thought: “I could be applying for jobs right now.”
My son tells me he’s gone to space, so I ask him what he can see, but internally I’ve already moved on to thinking about his dinner plans next week and the ingredients I’ll need to add to the shopping list. I try to jot it down on my phone, but immediately, I’m bombarded with stressful reminders and work notifications. This is my Saturday.
These days, I’m rarely fully present. When I’m with my son, I feel guilty that I’m not working to provide a better future: one where he doesn’t have to sleep on a sofa bed in my kitchen. But when I’m working, I feel guilty of not being present enough in his most formative years.
His mum and I are no longer together, but we’re co-parenting successfully. I’ll cover half the week sharing Fridays: doing the breakfast, getting him ready for nursery, the childcare runs, then the evening with dinners, and bedtime. I have him every other weekend, and we’ll look after him together on Sunday as a family with school holidays being shared.
As much as the corporate world likes to perform “inclusivity” for parents, virtually every employer I’ve had still operates on the archaic assumption that if my meeting overruns, the mum can pick up the slack. Over the years I’ve suffered a heavy career cost for not dropping my parental responsibilities to meet these toxic expectations. I’ve had managers try and insist that I come to after work socials, while knowing I have my son that evening. Older colleagues (parents themselves), have raised hell over me leaving early to handle a childcare emergency, in one case escalating it with HR. All feeding into a cultural expectation that’s impossible to meet.
Of course, most mothers get it. They’ve suffered these penalties since the beginning. I’m met with bewilderment from everyone else; from childless millennials to boomer parents: “You can’t take him tomorrow instead?”, “Does his mum not take care of him?”.
My own parents initially struggled to understand what being a modern dad entails. My father worked full time in the office, while my mum handled the childcare and most of the housework for the best part of a decade. This division of labour seemed to work for them.
My income today could never support a household the way my father’s did, yet I still wouldn’t trade his “traditional” arrangement for mine. He’s really come into his own as a terrific grandfather, but things weren’t always so rosy between us growing up. I’m doing everything I can to have a closer relationship with my own son.
As a 34-year-old dad, society expects me to be more patient, sensitive, and emotionally available than our fathers were, while doing three times the childcare, twice the housework, and clocking in the same work hours. It’s exhausting, and I often fall short.
Most of us simply don’t measure up. You might be a solid provider but you rarely see your kids before bedtime. Perhaps you’re more present with a deep bond, and handle your fair share of chores, but you’re not bringing in enough money. Either way you feel like you’re failing.
Being a “provider” remains the cornerstone of my identity as a father, even as the job market crumbles around me. I’ve been under-employed since last year, fighting for short-term gigs in what seems like a national game of musical chairs. But as a divorced dad with fixed childcare responsibilities, the game feels rigged.
That is why I couldn’t simply enjoy the sunny park with my son; when the music stops, I’m the one without a job, and my son pays the price.
I know I’m not alone. Half of surveyed dads report “not great” or “very poor” mental health, often due to cost of living and employment pressures. Research suggests when dads face financial hardship or unemployment, they often experience strong feelings of failure with the loss of their “provider” identity. This in turn often leads to a withdrawal from their children.
As a dad, it’s crucial to resist this feeling, to not recede. Instead, be useful: as a caregiver, a teacher, or a role model. That’s what I’ll be doing. I won’t be able to afford a two bedroom flat anytime soon for him. We won’t get to go on the same Spanish holidays I got to experience as a child, but I’ll be there whenever he needs me, and I’ll be present.
I have been forced to adapt my expectations around providing for my son in the last few years, but I’m not giving up. When I imagine my future, and the life I want to build with my son, as far off as that future feels, I wouldn’t bet against us.
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