Father's Day, Four Years Sober, and a Suit I Can't Seem to Wear

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. It’s a day that always makes you take stock—not just of your role as a father, but your role as a man. After laying a lot of my struggles bare in my last post, it feels like the right time to talk about a different kind of quiet, a different kind of "heavy."

In September, I’ll be four years sober. That’s four years of intentionally rebuilding a man from the ground up, out of the fire of a past life. I’ve molded and formed not only my body into a version that's healthier than it was even before the diagnosis that changed everything, but also my mind. I've worked to become the man I believe a family deserves: the provider, the protector, sometimes the goofy guy, but also the serious family leader. "Husband material," as they say.

You do the work. You face the demons. You build the stability. You learn to be a rock for your son and for yourself.

And then you look around… and the house is quiet.

It’s been over three years since I’ve had a true significant other. Months since I've had more than an acquaintance's side hug from a woman. There's a profound loneliness that comes with a lack of intimacy, of not feeling needed in that specific way a man wants to be needed by a partner.

And here’s the paradox that I’m so hard-pressed to understand: You spend years forging this new man, this new life. You build something you're proud of, something you believe is worth sharing. You become the guy who isn't drama, who has handled his baggage, who isn't looking for "low-hanging fruit." You offer care, respect, patience, and a genuine desire to connect.

And the response from the world feels like being put on a waitlist. It’s the endless cycle of, "I'll let you know when I am available to make time for you."

You start to question everything. Did I do all this work just to become a low priority in someone else's busy life? You see the very people you were trying not to be—the chaos, the drama—seemingly finding connection, while you're left with your hard-won stability, alone.

As I said in my last post, it makes you feel like that quiet kid on the playground again. You know how to be a friend, a partner, a man… but you’re standing there, watching the game, and no one seems to be passing you the ball. You start to wonder if the suit of armor you built to protect your sobriety and your heart has become too heavy, too intimidating for anyone else to get close to.

But the work was never just about finding a partner. I have to remind myself of that.

The work was for my son. It was to make sure he has a father he can be proud of, a father who is present, stable, and strong in a way that truly matters.

The work was for me. To save myself. To build a life I didn't need to numb with a drink.

So on this Father's Day, maybe that has to be enough for now. Being the man my son can count on is the ultimate purpose. The rest—that feeling of being needed as a partner, the intimacy, the connection—I have to trust that it will fall into place when the time is right, with a person who doesn't need to "make time" for me, but who chooses to build time with me, recognizing the care, respect, and genuine love I offer.

You just have to keep being "Out Here," authentically and patiently. Ready.

Happy Father's Day, fellas.