The Gift My Father Couldn’t Give Me

There’s something I’ve been reclaiming lately that I didn’t even know I was missing.

Space.

Not physical space, but the right to exist fully. To take up room. To hold ground. To speak calmly and confidently. To trust my anger without being consumed by it.
And as I’ve stepped into that, I’ve realised:

This is a gift my father never gave me.
Not because he didn’t want to — but because he didn’t really have it himself.

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He didn’t know how to model self-respect.
He didn’t know how to hold space without controlling it.
He didn’t know how to be present without shrinking or exploding.
And so, I learned to stay small. To read the room. To flinch before speaking.
To avoid taking up too much.

And now, every time I pause and let myself fully arrive —
in a conversation, in a room, in a moment of confrontation —
I feel that part of me say: “Can I really stand here?”

And the answer, now, is always:

“Yeah. I fucking can.”

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I used to think that anger was dangerous.
That presence was threatening.
That claiming space meant stealing it from someone else.

But I see now — it’s just balance.
It’s just giving myself what no one else thought to offer.
Not to dominate. Not to prove.
Just to stand. To breathe. To exist in full.

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This is the masculinity I’m rebuilding —
Not borrowed. Not reactive. Not hollowed out by ego.

Grounded. Respectful. Present. Unshaken.

And if I pass one thing to my son, let it be this:

That he doesn’t have to shrink to survive.
That his presence isn’t a threat.
That his anger isn’t the enemy.
That taking up space is his birthright — and no one can take that from him.

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This is the gift I was never given.
So I’m giving it to myself.
And one day, to him.

Because the cycle ends here.

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