A Letter of Healing to the Fatherless Sons

From the day I began writing, three years ago, until now, my work has always centered around mothers. That was never by accident or even by choice; it was by design. I’ve always found it difficult to write about "a father" because I had no point of reference. I never had a father be a role model, never had one show up in the ways that matter. That absence shaped both my silence and my storytelling.

Today is my birthday, and it also happens to be Father’s Day, an unusual overlap that has stirred something in me, something I couldn’t ignore. It compelled me to finally confront the image of the father, not just as a personal reflection, but as a social reckoning. To me, a "father" has always been a villain, sometimes in shadow, sometimes in plain sight. And it’s painfully difficult to unsee that role when we look at how so many South African fathers and men are treating their innocent sons and daughters, and our loving mothers and sisters. How do we celebrate a figure that, for so many, never existed or only existed to harm?

Still, I write this not to condemn, but to question, to hold space for the pain and the absence, and maybe, in that space, to begin imagining something better, because as much as the figure of the father has hurt me, and continues to hurt so many, there’s also a deep yearning buried beneath the anger. A longing for safety, for accountability, for love that doesn’t leave. I think that’s what makes Father’s Day so complicated for people like me. It's not just about what we didn’t have, it's about what we still wish we did.

I’ve seen glimpses of what fatherhood could be, through my brother and friends, through my uncles and strangers, through rare stories where men show up, stay, and protect. And while those stories are not mine, I hold onto them. Not out of naivety, but because the alternative, complete hopelessness, is too heavy to carry forever. So today, I choose to write. To name the wound. To speak from the place where silence used to live. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the beginning of something new: forgiveness, growth, and the expression of truth. And from truth, maybe one day, healing.

I am not writing this because I am a father, but a young man who is planning to be one.  A young man who never had a stable father figure to guide him, to teach him how to be present, how to love, how to lead, how to protect, and provide. I am writing this because I have had to learn through observing other fathers, watching what they do right, and imagining the kind of father I want to become and a kind father I want to be, not only to my kids but all the kids I will father, I will guide, nurture, and encounter throughout my life.I write to my brothers, to the men beside me, and to those who are becoming fathers like I am. I write to say that if we want to live fulfilling lives, if we want to break the cycles that broke us, we must do better. We need to choose a different path. A path rooted in care, in presence, in accountability. We need to do good, we need to do better. 

Our fathers have failed us. They have disappointed us. Many have walked away from their responsibilities and left their families wounded and incomplete. And we all know the consequences of absent and broken fatherhood. We know how hard it is to grow up without a strong, wise, loving father in the home. We know the sadness, the confusion, and the loneliness that settles in when that presence is missing. So, let us not do what our fathers did; let us do right by our children, our families, and our communities. Let us be the men who show up, who love deeply, who take responsibility, and who lead with heart. And let us not only correct the wrong they have done, but let us forgive where we can, not to excuse the harm, but to free ourselves from the resentment, guilt, and shame that we carry. Let us also heal. Because in healing ourselves, we create the space to raise a new generation differently. A generation that knows love, guidance, and stability. A generation that sees fatherhood not as a burden, but as a beautiful and sacred calling.

You know, I visited my aunt and uncle for two weeks, and today is actually my last day with them. It has been a deeply meaningful time. Over these past two weeks, I have learnt so much, lessons about forgiveness, healing, the beauty of a God-centered family structure, and the true role of a father. I was telling them that, growing up, I never spent more than an hour talking with a father figure, and even that was rare. Saying it out loud became an emotional realisation. Most of the men I have spent time with either do not talk or are not sober. That is the world I knew. But in their home, I experienced something different. I witnessed what love looks like between husband and wife, how a father leads with gentleness, and how a man creates safety and order in the home.

It was there that I began to understand what it truly means to forgive my father. To let go of the pain and anger I have carried for years. The pain that hardened my heart, the anger that convinced me I did not need him, that I was better off without a father. But deep down, all I ever wanted was to laugh with him, to learn from him, to feel his presence, and to be happy around him. And most of all, I wanted him to keep his promise and get me that bicycle he once said he would when I was just a little boy.

And I guess forgiveness is not about forgetting what happened or pretending it did not hurt. It is about freeing myself from the weight of it all, releasing the anger that has shaped how I see the world and how I see myself. Forgiveness is not for him alone; it is for me too. It is for the little boy inside me who waited by the gate hoping his father would come. It is for the young man who learnt to be strong without guidance, who carried responsibilities he should not have had to carry so early.

I now see that forgiving my father does not mean I approve of his absence; it means I am choosing to live without bitterness. I am choosing to break the cycle. I am choosing to show up with love for the children I will one day raise and for the people around me who need my presence.

Spending time with my aunt and uncle taught me that healing is possible. That family can be a safe place. That a father can be kind, can be firm with love, can be joyful, and can be present. It gave me a glimpse of what I missed, but more importantly, it gave me a vision of what I can become. I do not have to be a product of what I lacked. I can become the kind of father I never had. The kind of man who listens, who loves, who laughs, and who keeps his promises.

So today, I choose to write. To name the wound. To speak from the place where silence used to live. And maybe, just maybe, that is the beginning of something new, not forgiveness, not forgetting, but truth. And from truth, maybe one day, healing. I have come to understand that not all fathers are the same. There are those who have shown up, who continue to show up, who nurture, protect, and lead with softness and strength. I do not write to ignore them. I write because they are too few, and their presence often feels like a whisper in a world that shouts neglect and violence. But even a whisper can guide us when the noise becomes too loud to bear.

Maybe writing this today, on my birthday, on Father's Day, is not about closure but about courage. The courage to face what I never had. The courage to ask hard questions. The courage to say that something must change. Because we cannot keep celebrating a title that so many have abandoned. We cannot keep pretending that the damage is not deep and that the silence of fathers has not echoed through generations.

Still, I hope. I hope for a future where boys are raised with tenderness and taught that strength is not domination but care. I hope for a time when girls do not have to heal from what their fathers did or failed to do. I hope that the word "father" can one day hold pride instead of pain, and I hope that by writing this, someone else feels seen. That someone finds the words they have buried. That someone dares to believe in something better, even if they have never known it.

So today, I leave with a heart that is still tender but lighter. A mind that is clearer. And a spirit that is ready to forgive, to grow, and to love better.