Failing My Way to Better Fatherhood
“When I’m sad, I only go to Mummy.”
Those words landed like a punch to the gut. We were out as a family, enjoying what should have been a simple, fun day, when my son dropped this line. Instantly, I felt my heart clench. I looked at my wife, and the concern in her eyes reflected back at me. Neither of us needed to say it, but I knew she was thinking: You’ve created this emotional distance, and now he doesn’t feel safe coming to you.
I didn’t argue, because she was right. This wasn’t just about a few tense bedtimes or rushed routines; it was evidence of a deeper chasm that had been growing for a while. My impatience, my need for “me time,” and my misplaced priorities had eroded the trust and closeness we once shared. Suddenly, small requests—like asking him to brush his teeth or pick up his toys—felt like walking on eggshells, with both of us bracing for a meltdown. It wasn’t just one moment; it was a pattern, a dark period in our family life that left me feeling helpless and ashamed.
And yet, in the broader context of fatherhood, it also became a turning point—a place where I discovered the power of introspection, vulnerability, and the possibility of rebuilding what I had nearly destroyed.
When a Dad Coach Feels Like a Failure
Let’s back up about two years. At the time, it felt like everything I prided myself on—my ability to connect with children, my understanding of child development, my role as a “dad coach”—was crumbling. Ironically, all this turmoil centred on something as mundane as bedtime. My wife had her usual Wednesday nights out, and I had the kids to myself. Typically, that wouldn’t be a problem, except that Liverpool were in the Champions League.
I’d worked with children most of my adult life, supervised staff in child and youth care, and even earned a postgraduate qualification in the field. I’d led parenting courses, taught emotional regulation strategies, and considered it my calling to support fathers in building loving, respectful relationships with their kids. And here I was, failing to do exactly that in my own home.
Being a dad coach heightened the sting. If this happened to someone else, I’d gently guide them to reflect on what was happening beneath the surface. I’d ask about stress levels, unspoken resentments, or the child’s emotional needs. But when it was my own meltdown, I felt overwhelmed by shame. I’d get stuck in a loop of self-recrimination: “Come on—you do this for a living. How can you be messing it up so completely?”
A “Rod for Your Own Back”—Or the Ultimate Investment?
We’d always been big on bedtime cuddles and stories. From the moment our kids were old enough to reach out for comfort, we made it a routine to fill their emotional cups before sleep—reading books, exchanging silly jokes, and taking a few moments to reflect on the day. We’d heard the usual warnings: “You’ll make a rod for your own back if you keep cuddling them to sleep!” But we believed wholeheartedly that these nighttime connections laid the foundation for emotional security.
We used to laugh about how often one parent would fall asleep in our child’s bed, only for the other parent to tiptoe in and gently nudge them awake. Yes, it meant a few less hours of evening “adult time,” but it also meant our children went to bed feeling safe and loved. For the longest time, it never felt like a burden—until I decided that football was more important.
The Shift: Wednesday Nights and Champions League
Everything changed one particular Wednesday. Liverpool were playing in the Champions League, and I was determined to watch it live. After a busy day, I was craving that sense of release. Surely, I thought, I deserve one night a week to indulge in something for myself. So I started hustling my son along during bedtime—checking my phone every few minutes, hurrying through the toothbrush routine, rushing him into his pyjamas. If he asked for a second story or a longer cuddle, I’d snap: “No, not tonight—come on, get a move on!”
He sensed something was off straight away. Children, I’ve learned, are experts at picking up emotional cues. If an adult is stressed or preoccupied, they feel it viscerally. And if you happen to be that adult, you might find yourself face-to-face with a child who’s suddenly uncooperative, upset, or defiant. This dynamic is sometimes described in the Circle of Security approach as children “miscueing” you—showing difficult behaviour when they’re really seeking closeness or reassurance.
But that Wednesday, I was too wrapped up in my own frustration to remember any of my training. My son refused to settle, I got angrier, and before I knew it, bedtime had devolved into tears and arguments. Worse still, I’d missed the start of the match anyway, so my plan to enjoy “my time” backfired.
A Problem That Spilled Over
You’d think one bad night would have been enough to snap me out of it. But the same pattern repeated every Wednesday. The tension lingered through the rest of the week, too. My wife noticed I was irritable in the mornings, snapping over trivialities like an unwashed cup or a misplaced sock. My son became more guarded around me, flinching if I raised my voice even slightly.
By the second or third week, I recognised this was more than a passing phase. I was prioritising football over his emotional wellbeing, and he knew it. I’d see him stiffen when we went upstairs for bedtime, as if bracing for the moment Dad would try to cut corners or show impatience. And the more I rushed him, the more anxious and resistant he became, which only escalated my own frustration further.
It was a grim cycle, with no easy exit—especially since I was blinded by my own sense of entitlement. A voice in my head kept saying: “I work hard; I deserve this match. Why can’t he just go to bed quickly for once?”
Meltdown After Meltdown: A Dark Place
The shame and blame took root. Sometimes, I directed it at him: “He’s being so difficult!” Other times, I turned on myself: “You’re a fraud—how can you call yourself a dad coach?” In truth, shame is rarely productive. As I often say, “No good comes from blame. When blame enters our vocabulary, we lose our ability to be open-minded and curious.” Yet there I was, wielding blame like a sword, cutting through any chance of reflection or empathy.
One night, after we’d both lost our tempers, my son threw out those three devastating words: “I hate you!” Though I knew deep down he didn’t literally hate me—children that age often express anger in extremes—it still hit me with the force of a wrecking ball. I realised I’d become the source of his stress, not his safe haven. That contradiction stung: I was supposed to be the bigger, stronger, wiser, kind presence he could rely on (to quote Circle of Security terminology), and instead, I’d turned into the person making bedtime unsafe.
Crossing the Line into Real Distance
It wasn’t just bedtimes anymore. The emotional fallout showed itself in other ways. Over dinner, he’d be moody or withdrawn. If I asked him to clear his plate or help tidy up, I’d get a sullen, “No,” followed by stomping off. I tried to talk to him in calmer moments: “Why are you so angry at me?” But he’d shrug or say, *“I don't want stories with you.” He'd reject me before I rejected him, ouch. *
That was the real heartbreak—the realisation that he no longer felt comfortable coming to me for comfort. He even told me, during a family outing, “When I’m sad, I only go to Mummy.” It was like a dagger to the heart. My wife, who had watched this play out for weeks, simply gave me a look that said, *That must have hurt.* She could see the pain I was going through, she could see it for both of us.
The Mirror Moment: My Wife’s Patience
My wife could easily have unleashed her frustration. She had every right to say, “Sort yourself out or you’ll ruin your relationship with your son!” Instead, she held space in a way that was both compassionate and candid. One night, I flopped onto the sofa, complaining that I felt like a terrible dad. She took a deep breath and said: “You’re not a bad dad, but you’re behaving in ways that make him feel unimportant. And you know what to do: decide if the match is really worth wrecking your bond.”
She laid it out so simply. I knew all these principles in theory. I’d taught them to other dads. Yet, implementing them for myself, in the heat of emotional stress, was another matter. Sometimes, the knowledge we have in our heads doesn’t align with the impulses in our hearts, especially when we’re running on fumes of fatigue and frustration.
Rod for Your Own Back? Or Another Path Entirely
Remember the early days, when people warned us that cuddling a child to sleep would “make a rod for our own back?” Those same people might have pointed to my meltdown as proof. But I maintain that the meltdown was never caused by the child’s need for closeness; it was caused by my reluctance to prioritise that closeness over my personal desire to watch football.
In other words, the so-called “rod” wasn’t built by bedtime cuddles. It was built by my own impatience and sense of entitlement. My son had grown accustomed to a sense of safety at bedtime, and he was understandably rattled when that safety was taken away. If anything, the meltdown proved the importance of continuing those rituals of connection, not shying away from them.
No Magic Wand—Just Reflection
Eventually, it dawned on me that there was no magic solution to fix the emotional gulf I’d created. The only way forward was through honest self-reflection and the humility to own my mistakes. I remember my wife asking me, “Why do you think he’s so upset?” and me finally admitting: “Because I’ve been pushing him away for weeks. He feels rejected, and now he’s rejecting me in return.”
This realisation—that I was the architect of my own misery—brought a wave of shame, but also a sense of clarity. Yes, I thought, I am the common denominator here. If I change my approach, maybe the dynamic will shift.
NASA has a saying about failure—calling it an “early attempt at success.” It felt generous to label my meltdown as an early attempt at success, but it also gave me a gentler framework to step away from self-flagellation. Instead of seeing this as a final indictment on my ability to be a good father, I began to see it as a wake-up call that forced me to confront the reality of my behaviour.
The Blacksmith’s Forge: Heat as a Catalyst
I often talk about a blacksmith’s forge, where metal must be heated until it’s malleable enough to shape. These harrowing weeks were my forge. The repeated conflicts, the shame, the tension in the house—these were the flames that softened my stubbornness. Without that heat, I might never have admitted I was putting my own comfort above my child’s emotional safety.
A blacksmith can’t reshape cool metal. It has to be red-hot, almost molten, to be hammered into something new. My meltdown had made me red-hot with shame and regret, but also pliable—ready to change. It was painful, yes, but if I let it, that pain could lead to a more patient, empathic version of myself.
Hints of Progress, But Not a Full Fix
At some point, I realised that changing course wouldn’t be as simple as deciding, “Okay, I’ll just skip football.” That might have been the pragmatic step, but I also had to address the emotional fallout. My son needed reassurance, consistency, and genuine proof that I was willing to show up for him without resentment.
So, I started making small shifts. I told myself: “If I have to miss the first half, so be it. If it means reading two stories instead of one, I’ll do it.” When I found my impatience rising, I’d take a breath, remind myself that he was my top priority, and try to connect rather than hurry him along. If it meant missing a critical goal, I could catch up with highlights later.
Little by little, he started to relax. The tension didn’t vanish overnight; trust is rebuilt gradually. But I saw glimmers of the old bedtime routine peeking through—moments of silliness and closeness that had been missing for weeks. In truth, that was far more satisfying than any match result.
(We’ll talk more about the specific steps I took to repair our relationship in Part Two, so stay tuned.)
From Failure to “Early Attempts at Success”
Yes, it was humiliating to realise I’d trampled on my son’s emotional needs just to catch a match. But as time passed, I began to see how this very failure was the crucible that forced me to grow. Sometimes, success that arrives without struggle is easy to miss or take for granted. But the success that emerges from repeated failures comes with deeper insight.
Going back to NASA, I once read that they don’t simply accept or ignore mistakes—they systematically learn from them, adjusting their engineering, their protocols, their entire approach to space exploration. That’s how I started viewing my meltdown. If I treated each tense night as data, I could identify what triggered my impatience and find ways to manage or mitigate it. Instead of labelling myself a disgrace, I began to label those nights as “attempts” at success—painful attempts, yes, but also invaluable.
No Good Comes from Blame
One of the biggest barriers to real change had been my own tendency to blame—sometimes I blamed him for “acting out,” sometimes I blamed myself for “being a fraud.” But blame, in any direction, is a dead end. “When blame enters our vocabulary, we lose our ability to be open-minded and curious.” I repeated that to myself as a mantra.
Curiosity, on the other hand, opened doors. Instead of thinking, “He’s so defiant!” I learned to ask, “What’s he really feeling underneath this defiance?” Instead of berating myself, “I’m a terrible dad!” I started asking, “Which of my unmet needs is causing me to act this way, and how can I address it constructively?”
This shift from blame to curiosity was subtle but powerful—it let me see both of us (my son and me) as people with valid needs, rather than adversaries locked in a power struggle. And that perspective became the foundation for slowly rebuilding our bond.
It Felt Like the End, But Really It Was the Beginning
If you’d asked me in the middle of this crisis whether I could ever feel close to my son again, I might have burst into tears. The sense of failure was overwhelming. But in retrospect, that meltdown period wasn’t an endpoint—it was the starting line for a new, deeper understanding of what my son needed and who I wanted to be as a father.
It’s important to note that I’m still on that journey. I haven’t magically become a perfect parent (spoiler: no one is). But I have learned that humility and willingness to look in the mirror are far more valuable than never stumbling at all. It’s in the stumbling that we see our blind spots and learn to do better.
Lessons Learned (and Still Learning)
Imperfection Is Key
No parent is perfect. We all have moments where we snap, lose patience, or let our own desires overshadow our child’s needs. The key is what we do afterwards—owning it, apologising, and striving to improve.Shame vs. Growth
Shame kept me stuck in blame and defensiveness. Growth only started when I gave myself permission to see this meltdown as a learning opportunity. As NASA might say, a failure can be an early attempt at success.Children Feel Everything
Our kids pick up on our stress, impatience, or lack of genuine interest. When we’re rushing them, they interpret it as a lack of love or importance. Recognising this is crucial to preventing those messy meltdowns in the first place.Apologies Require Consistency
Saying “I’m sorry” is important, but our children watch to see if our behaviour changes. If we go right back to the same pattern, our apology rings hollow. Consistency, over time, rebuilds broken trust.Balance Matters
Parents do need breaks, hobbies, and “me time.” But balance is key—our children’s emotional needs can’t be bulldozed by our schedules. If we treat their needs as obstacles, we create resentment on both sides.Patience Over Pressure
Kids don’t run on adult timetables, and expecting them to “hurry up” so we can do what we want is a recipe for conflict. Sometimes, an extra five or ten minutes at bedtime can defuse the entire power struggle.No Good Comes from Blame
Whether it’s directed at your child or yourself, blame hinders problem-solving. Approaching conflict with curiosity—What’s really going on here?—opens the door to empathy and better communication.The Blacksmith’s Forge
Just like forging metal, sometimes we have to face intense heat (shame, conflict, regret) to reshape ourselves into more empathetic, resilient parents.
Concluding Thoughts (Before the Next Chapter)
Parenthood can be humbling, especially for those of us who, on paper, “should know better.” All the degrees, training, and professional expertise in the world don’t automatically shield us from real-life emotional struggles with our own children. Often, it’s only when we’re confronted by repeated failures that we finally see how urgently we need to adapt.
For me, those tense Wednesday nights—and the days of fallout that followed—were a kind of furnace, melting away my complacency and forcing me to re-evaluate my priorities. If you’re reading this and see parallels in your own life, take heart: failure can be the turning point you need. It’s rarely final; it can be the clarion call prompting you to dig deeper, reflect more honestly, and commit to doing better.
I’m still learning. I still slip up. But now, instead of drowning in shame, I try to remain open-minded and curious—ready to see these moments as early attempts at a better connection with my child.
Final Note
If there’s one thing I hope you take away from this story, it’s this: You are not alone, and you are not beyond redemption. Even in the darkest parenting moments—when you feel like you’re single-handedly ruining your child’s emotional health—there remains the potential to pivot, apologise, and strive for change. Sometimes, our biggest stumbles become the catalysts for the most profound growth.
Thank you for reading—and remember, the journey continues. Join me in the next instalment, where I share the specific strategies, apologies, and shifts in mindset that finally helped me rekindle the closeness my son and I had lost. Until then, let’s keep forging ahead, one imperfect step at a time.
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Love everything about this post. Powerful story with profound insights for all parents or even people in relationships. Thank you brother
I feel like your biggest mistake, and I say this as a parent who knows how important consistent bedtimes are, was not letting him watch the game with you and turning him into a Liverpool fan.
I mean, what if you drive him into the arms of Manchester United?