He Wasn’t There

This essay took me 7 years to write but it is 36 years in the making… This past weekend I shared this essay with the men who came to my mens retreat in Sedona Arizona: True North. It was powerful, not just for the men, but for me. To share this message with the world is freeing. Please share this essay with anyone who you think needs it.

He wasn’t there.

It’s a quiet phrase, isn’t it? But those words carry weight—a weight I’ve carried for most of my life.

My dad wasn’t there.

Not when I was learning how to ride a bike, wobbling and falling, knees skinned and bloody. Not when I struggled to tie a tie before my first big event. Not when I stared out the window, waiting for someone who never showed up.

He wasn’t there to show me how to grill a steak, throw a baseball, or dust myself off after falling flat on my face. He wasn’t there to teach me how to stand up for myself, how to respect others, or how to work hard for what I wanted. He wasn’t there to show me there was no monster in the closet.

When my first heartbreak hit me like a storm, he wasn’t there to tell me I’d be okay, to push me to get back out there and try again. He wasn’t there to show me what it means to be strong, or what it looks like to be a competent, capable man. He wasn’t there to remind me to hold eye contact during a handshake or to teach me that a good man kneels to no one but God.

He wasn’t there for my birthdays, my holidays, my big games. He wasn’t there for the wins, and he wasn’t there for the losses. When I lost control, he wasn’t there to help me understand the power of self-control. When I doubted myself, he wasn’t there to teach me about self-respect or self-efficacy.

He wasn’t there.

And because he wasn’t there, I had to learn.

I had to stumble through these lessons alone, piece by painful piece, carving out my own understanding of what it means to be a man. At 36 years old, I’m still learning. Still figuring out what it means to lead, to protect, to respect myself and others.

It’s a journey I never signed up for, but it’s one I’ve embraced.

Let me be clear: this isn’t about blame. It’s not about fault. My dad’s absence wasn’t a deliberate act of neglect. It’s just the truth. And the truth is this: fathers are important.

They are more than a presence; they are the foundation. Fathers set the tone for their families. For their communities.

For the world.

When a father is there, he’s a guide. A teacher. A protector. He’s the one who shows his son what integrity looks like and shows his daughter what respect feels like. He’s the one who models strength—not just physical strength, but the strength to be vulnerable, to admit when he’s wrong, to show up even when it’s hard.

But when a father isn’t there? His absence leaves a void. It leaves unanswered questions and unlearned lessons. Those lessons don’t just fade away; they become mountains that the rest of us have to climb. Sometimes alone. Sometimes without a map.

I’m telling you this story because I know I’m not alone. Maybe you’ve felt it too—that ache, that longing for something you can’t quite name. Maybe you’ve stood in front of a mirror, trying to piece together what it means to be enough, to be strong, to be whole. Maybe you’ve asked yourself, “Why wasn’t he there?”

But here’s the thing: while his absence shaped me, it doesn’t define me. I’ve learned to stand. I’ve learned to fall and get back up again. I’ve learned that being a man isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about seeking them, owning them, and passing them on.

To the men who are fathers: If you’re falling short, it’s time to step up. Your children need you. The world needs you. You don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to be present. Because your absence doesn’t just echo in the lives of your children; it reverberates through generations.

And to the fathers who are there—teaching, guiding, leading—I salute you. You are the anchors, the heroes, the role models. You are shaping the future one lesson, one hug, one moment at a time.

So to every man reading this, ask yourself: What kind of legacy am I leaving? What kind of example am I setting?

Because one day, your children—or the people you influence—will look back. And they’ll either say, “He wasn’t there,” or they’ll say, “Because of him, I am who I am today.”

The choice is yours.

-Adam Niall