At 44 years old, being a father means living in two worlds at once. On one side, there’s the daily hustle of parenting – making lunches, driving to practice, giving advice, checking homework, making sure everyone feels safe and loved. On the other side, there’s the larger world pressing in from every glowing screen, a relentless tide of fear, anger, and despair delivered in quick jolts of headlines, memes, and video clips.

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The culture we live in is engineered to keep us reactive. Social media companies thrive on outrage because it’s the fastest way to keep us clicking. Politicians profit when we’re afraid. News outlets – whether cable channels or podcasts – build loyalty by convincing us that things are worse than we think and that only they can explain the chaos. The reward system is tilted against calm, against nuance, against hope.

As a father, I feel that weight every day.

When I scroll my phone at night, it’s easy to feel like the world is unraveling. Another disaster, another scandal, another person yelling into a camera about how everything is broken. Are there real problems in this country? Absolutely, and the temptation is to either rage along with it or turn numb. But neither of those paths serves my kids. If they see me consumed by anger, they’ll learn that anger is the only lens worth looking through. If they see me cynical and checked out, they’ll think the future isn’t worth caring about.

That’s the heart of the struggle, right? Raising children who can thrive in a culture that profits from rage, hate, and despair, while trying not to be consumed by it myself.

I think back to my own childhood. The news was on, sure, but it only came once or twice a day. Arguments about politics happened around dinner tables, not in 24/7 comment threads. Fear wasn’t packaged into addictive little bites that followed us into bed. My parents had their stresses, but there was breathing room. Today, that space feels thinner.

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So how do I hold steady?

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For me, it starts with conscious resistance. I’ve had to teach myself to put the phone down, to close the apps that make me feel smaller instead of wiser. I try to replace doomscrolling with games, reading, workouts, or conversations that actually nourish me. I’ve learned that silence – the absence of noise – can be a form of strength.

It also means remembering what’s REAL in front of me. My daughter’s laugh when she tells a really bad joke. My son’s determination when he takes the field. My wife’s hand reaching for mine after a long day. Those things don’t trend online. Though maybe they should, they don’t go viral. But they are the antidote to the poison of despair.

And still, it’s not easy. There are days I feel the pull of anger more than calm, the sting of hopelessness more than the spark of resilience. There are nights I lie awake wondering what kind of world my kids will inherit. That fear is real. It’s honest. But I’ve come to believe my job isn’t to shield them from every storm, it’s to model what it looks like to stay grounded in the middle of one.

At 44, being a father means more than saying goodnight to the kids… It means choosing not to let the culture of fear dictate the atmosphere of my home. It means showing my kids that while the world may be loud, divided, and sometimes cruel, there is still a place for hope, kindness, and strong, steady hands.

The truth is, I can’t change the fact that we live in a time of outrage and division. But I can choose not to let it live in me. And maybe, just maybe, if enough of us fathers, mothers, and neighbors make that choice, the tide can shift – slowly, quietly, but powerfully.

Until then, I’ll keep trying. Because my kids deserve a father who is present, not panicked. Calm, not consumed. A man who can see through the noise and remind them: the world is still wide, still full of possibility, and still worth believing in. That possibility just may be in a different flavor…

Whats your flavor?