There are moments in a man’s life when the world slows down and everything—his career, his degrees, his deadlines—melts into the background. For me, that moment happened when baby Daniel’s tiny fingers curled tightly around mine with a grip that could rival any heavyweight boxer. In that instant, the weight of fatherhood landed gently—but irrevocably—on my heart.
We often shine a light on Mother’s Day with the grandeur and intensity it rightly deserves. Father’s Day, by contrast, is quieter—less celebrated, often overshadowed. But the truth is, good fathers are not extinct. They are simply not always loud about their love. They are the men fixing school projects late into the night, the ones attending parent-teacher meetings between double shifts, the ones praying silently over sick children or doing without so their families can have more.
I have stood at hospital bedsides, listened to final breaths, delivered difficult diagnoses and celebrated miracle recoveries. But nothing prepared me for the sacred, humbling, all-consuming joy—and terror—of becoming a father.
To many, my father is a spiritual compass—a minister of religion whose sermons echo not from microphones, but from moments of quiet compassion and unwavering integrity. He stands at many pulpits, yes, but it is the way he lives that preaches the loudest.
I often wondered how he managed to give so much to his congregation and still find time for his three children. It is only now that I understand the sacrifice embedded in every smile, every late-night conversation, every silent prayer offered on our behalf.
We must uplift fathers, honour them, and yes—also call on them to do better when they fall short. Because while the image of a present, loving father is something to be cherished, the reality is that many children grow up without that figure. And the effects of fatherlessness ripple through generations—affecting mental health, educational outcomes, self-esteem, and even physical health.
It is here that my brother’s work takes on profound meaning. Many may not know that International Men’s Day, observed on November 19, was in fact started by my brother right here in Trinidad and Tobago. It was no coincidence that he chose that date—it is the birthday of our father. And just as poignantly, World Day of the Boy Child, which he also championed, falls on the birthday of our mother.
June is Men’s Mental Health Month—a time to break the silence that too often surrounds the emotional struggles of men. In a world where boys are still told to “man up” and vulnerability is mistaken for weakness, far too many men suffer in silence. Depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts are often buried beneath stoic smiles and silent battles.
This month, let us encourage men to speak, to seek help, and to know that strength is not about bottling it up—it’s about breaking free.
A healthy man is not just one with strong muscles or low cholesterol, but one who knows it’s okay to say, “I’m not okay.”
Vulnerability is the birthplace of real connection.
To the men reading this today: your health matters. Not just for you, but for your children, your families, your futures. Talk to someone. Walk more. Drink less. Stop smoking. Screen for blood pressure, cholesterol, diabetes, prostate health and other age-appropriate conditions. Let your children see you model responsibility.
The health of a father often becomes a legacy. Children who see their fathers exercise, eat well, manage stress and attend medical appointments, are far more likely to adopt those behaviours themselves. And yet, far too many men delay medical care until it’s too late—brushing off chest pain, ignoring unexplained weight loss, or staying silent about depression.
If we want to raise healthy children, we must first nurture healthy men. Breathe deeply.
Hug your children more tightly and tell them that you love them. You may not always know the right words, but your actions—your quiet consistency—speak volumes.
To the women reading: encourage the men in your lives to seek care. To speak up. To open up. Let’s not allow pride to be the reason we attend funerals that could’ve been postponed by prevention.
And to baby Daniel—one day, when you’re old enough to read this, know that you changed your father’s life. You made me softer, bolder, kinder. I hope that when you speak of me one day, it will be with the same warmth I feel when I speak of your grandfather—a man who preaches less with words and more with love.
Let us honour all fathers: the biological, the adoptive, the stepfathers, the grandfathers, the uncles who raised nieces and nephews like their own. Let us honour the single fathers holding it down. The grieving fathers who visit graves instead of cribs. The expectant fathers with trembling hands and hopeful hearts. The broken fathers who are trying to be better. The strong fathers who make it look easy, even when it isn’t.
Let us rewrite the story of fatherhood in our nation—one of accountability, health, presence and love.
In the end, our children won’t remember the size of our house or the car we drove. They’ll remember the bedtime stories, the giggles, the scraped knees we kissed and the days we showed up—even when it was hard.
Happy Father’s Day to the men who make the world a safer, stronger, more loving place—one child at a time.