I didn’t expect “Forever” to hit me the way it did. I thought I was just watching a show. But somewhere between the quiet tension, and unfinished bids for connection, I saw myself—not the polished version I try to be, but the messy, trying-to-do-better version I usually keep quiet.
Justin and Eric’s relationship captivated me. I watched how Eric chasing his dreams didn’t pull him away from parenting, but gave him the flexibility to be present for moments like this. I’ve never met my own father. That silence used to feel like background noise. Now, it’s a blueprint I’m consciously trying not to follow.
There’s a scene that stuck with me. Justin tells his parents he’s inviting Keisha over. His mom and dad share a look—he’s growing up, but still their little boy. Instead of shutting him down, they lean in.
Later, the scene shifts from the kitchen to Justin’s room—now it’s just father and son. Then Eric does something beautiful and awkward. He brings out the condoms. Not as a threat. As a teacher. The moment is humorous, but underneath the laughter is something deeper.
Justin squirms, jokes, but Eric just says: “I’ll wait.”
No yelling. No ego. Just a line. A moment. A message.
Then Eric closes the curtains, lowers the lights–making it real because love, attraction, and pressure doesn’t always move slow. He teaches his son that environments matter. That energy can shift. That good intentions need preparation.
More than anything, Eric knew. He saw through Justin’s cool demeanor to the uncertainty underneath.
Another scene stayed with me. Justin, riding high after a great game, asked to celebrate with friends. Dawn’s protective instincts kicked in—questions, concerns, conditions. But Eric saw what mattered: his son had proven himself and earned this moment. Clean answers, clear permission, gentle leadership.
He showed me something—sometimes being the father means stepping past the worry to see who your child is becoming.
That’s the kind of father I want to be—the one who sees, who waits, and who teaches before it’s too late.
That’s grace. That’s fatherhood.
I’m raising a blended family. There’s beauty in that complexity that never stops surprising me.
I used to think parenting was about the big conversations. Then I realized my oldest tries to inflect his voice like mine when he’s laying down discipline with his younger siblings. My youngest, my daughter, comes to console me when I’m sad. More is caught than taught. They’re learning not from my lectures, but from watching me try to become better – mistakes, course corrections, and all. Some of these things I believe are inherited, just part of good people learning to recognize goodness in each other.
I love being around my kids. But I also carry this deep need to prepare them for a world that might not be gentle. Sometimes I push too hard, correcting before I listen. I want them to understand that choices matter—but also that mistakes don’t define you.
Here’s the line I toe every day: how to guide without gripping, how to love without projecting, and how to raise children without handing down my unspoken pain.
What I want for my kids is simple, but not easy.
I want them to be good people. To choose the right path, even when it’s boring. To build habits that lead to freedom rather than restriction. To clean up after themselves—not because I’m watching, but because it matters. To think critically. To ask questions. To not just follow rules, but understand why they exist.
Freedom isn’t chaos—it’s what structure makes possible. That’s what I never had. That’s what I’m trying to build.
I’ve had men in my life. Some taught me things. Some hurt me. Some were both.
I was a victim of sexual abuse as a child—by someone later murdered. The grief that followed didn’t make sense to my young mind. Holidays didn’t feel safe. I learned what silence and violence can do to a boy trying to become something in a world that keeps shrinking your voice.
Years of trauma, PTSD, and anger came out in ways I’m not proud of. I had to work through the weight of experiences I couldn’t even name for years. I’m still learning how to forgive myself for what I couldn’t control. Still teaching myself to breathe before I break. Still trying to let love in before fear takes the wheel.
But here’s what I know now: becoming means choosing healing—every day.
There’s more to my story – more healing, more learning, more becoming. But that’s for another time though.
Fatherhood is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me—and one of the hardest. I’m not perfect, but I’m present. I’m showing up, not because I always know what to do, but because I finally believe I can do it differently.
I’m trying to prepare them for a world without me. But I’m learning they need me here, now—patient, present, not perfect.
They won’t remember every lesson. But they’ll remember I never gave up on becoming better for them.
This isn’t a story about being perfect. It’s about showing up anyway—flawed, but faithful. Becoming, forever.
