Father’s Day always hits differently.

It’s supposed to be a celebration—a day of reflection and recognition. But for me, it always lands somewhere between tension and silence. It's not that I hate it. It’s just complicated.

The morning started early. Too early, maybe. I didn’t want to run, not really. But I knew I had to. Not for time, not for glory—just to reset my mind. The kind of run you do because you don’t know what else to do with the weight that creeps up the minute your eyes open.

Laced up. Out the door. Head down.

That first run—it wasn’t magic. It didn’t feel like a breakthrough. I wasn’t flooded with clarity or emotion. It was mechanical, like I was turning the crank on a machine just to keep it from stalling. The sun wasn’t high yet, but the air was already warm. My legs moved. My thoughts drifted. I wasn’t chasing a pace. I wasn’t chasing peace. I was just trying to move the needle. I got it done. That was it.

Came home. Wiped my face. Pulled myself back into the version of me that’s required for everyone else. Husband Mode. Dad Mode. Builder Mode.

Load up the truck. Drive to town. Spend the money. Glass door. Closet hardware. All the little pieces that don’t seem like much but somehow turn into entire weekends. Projects, plans, endless upgrades.

And I did it. Not because I had to—but because that’s what I do.

But the whole time, something was stirring inside me. That morning run hadn’t been enough. Something was unresolved. Something about the day felt unfinished. I knew what it was, even if I didn’t want to say it out loud.

It was him.

So I went back out. Midday this time. Sun blazing. Sweat pouring before I even cleared the driveway. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of my breath and the rhythm of my feet hitting pavement.

This run was for my father.

Not for the man he is now—but for the man he used to be. The man I used to look up to. The man I waited on for years. The man I quietly hoped would show up when I needed him most—and didn’t.

I ran for the silence. For the missed birthdays. The times I was left figuring out how to be a man by watching other men and filling in the blanks. I ran for all the shit I went through alone because I couldn’t reach out to the one person who was supposed to be there. The one person who chose not to be.

But I didn’t run with anger. Not today.

Today I ran with understanding. With forgiveness—not because he asked for it, but because I needed it. I needed to let go of carrying him like a ghost in my chest.

The pavement was hot. My lungs were burning. My shoulders heavy. But I kept running.

I thought about the few texts we’ve exchanged this year. The awkward meetups. The feeling of being in the same room as someone who used to mean everything and now feels like a stranger.

And yet… I ran for him. Or maybe I ran to him. Or maybe I ran away from him. I don’t really know. All I know is that every step felt like a conversation we never had.

"Where were you?"
"I needed you."
"I became a man without you."
"I’m still your son."
"But I’m my own man now."

He used to be my hero. Now he’s just a man. And I’m okay with that.

When I got home, drenched in sweat and thought, something felt lighter. Not fixed, but lighter. That was my Father’s Day gift—to me. To him. Even if he never knows he got it.

Later that day, the yard needed work. The house needed attention. Tools out. Pictures taken. Measurements noted. Another layer of the dad grind. I leaned in, not because I had to, but because it felt good to do. To be needed. To show up. To give my time to the people who count on me.

But there was one more number in my head.

21.3 kilometers. That’s a half marathon. I’d already done around 13. If I could squeeze in one more run—just 8.3 km more—I’d hit the mark. That kind of goal sticks in your head. It gnaws at you.

The sun was setting. The wind was up—cold and cutting. Not ideal running weather. But I went.

Not for distance.

This one was for Ashley.

I didn’t want the same old playlist. I wanted something that wasn’t mine. Something that could take me out of my own head for a bit. So I opened our Amazon Music and found her playlist.

Clicked play.

I was instantly in another world.

Some of it caught me off guard. Deep rap—honestly, not my thing most of the time. But certain tracks… they hit. Not just the beats, but the words. The stories. The emotion. I felt like I was hearing her thoughts without her ever saying a word. That’s the kind of connection I don’t take for granted.

I ran. And I listened.

And I realized… I don’t always see her. Not fully. She’s growing, changing, becoming her own person. And in that run, in her music, I caught a glimpse of who she’s becoming. I felt like I was running beside her, not physically—but in spirit. Like I was following her path for a few minutes, seeing the world through her rhythm.

I thought about the future. About the kind of father I want to be for her. The kind who listens. Who supports. Who knows her.

The kind of father I didn’t have.

And I kept running. Wind in my face. Sunset in my eyes. Pain in my legs—but pride in my heart.

When I got back, my watch flashed: 21.3 km.

A full half marathon.

One run for me.
One run for my father.
One run for my daughter.

Each one with its own story. Its own weight. Its own gift.

That’s what Father’s Day was to me this year. Not a barbecue. Not a beer on the deck. But three meaningful milesets, strung together with reflection, connection, and a bit of healing.

The kids gave me cards. Hugged me. Told me they loved me. And damn, that’s all I needed. That’s the real reward.

The sun is gone now. The weekend too. Monday is on the doorstep. The grind returns. But something about today will stay with me. The miles. The messages. The quiet understanding that I’m not just running away from pain—I’m running through it. I’m turning it into purpose.

So here’s to the fathers. The good ones. The broken ones. The ones who never showed up. And the ones who learned to show up because of that.

Here’s to learning. To growing. To moving forward, one step at a time.

Happy Father’s Day.

— T