I don’t know when the system stopped seeing us as parents. Maybe it never did.
In here, we’re reduced to numbers, charges, schedules, and count times. But what the paperwork never captures is this truth: a lot of us are still fathers, even when the world pretends we stopped being the moment the doors closed.
This is for the men doing time with kids on the outside. The fathers who missed birthdays, first steps, first words. The ones whose sons ask why Dad can’t come home yet. The ones whose daughters grow taller between visits. If you’re carrying that weight quietly, this is for you.
Fatherhood Behind Bars Is Still Fatherhood
I’m not writing this to play victim. I made choices. I own that. But accountability doesn’t erase love and prison doesn’t cancel fatherhood.
The Quiet Violence of Visitation
Visitation day is the longest and shortest day of the week.
You wake up early, heart already beating faster than normal. You shave closer than usual. You check your shirt for wrinkles that won’t matter anyway. You stand in line with other men pretending not to look nervous.
Then they walk in.
Your kids.
For a moment, the noise fades. The walls disappear. You’re just a dad again. You kneel down so you’re eye level. You listen harder than you ever have. You memorize their voices because you don’t know when you’ll hear them again.
And then it ends.
There’s no gentle transition. No time to explain. A voice announces it like it’s nothing, and suddenly your child is being pulled away while you’re still holding their hand. You’re expected to let go without breaking down. Some of us succeed. Some of us don’t.
Either way, you walk back to your unit with a hole in your chest and nowhere to put it.
Explaining the Unexplainable
My kids were young when I came in. Too young to understand consequences, time, or systems. Old enough to know I was gone.
Try explaining incarceration to a child without lying. Try telling them you can’t tuck them in because you made decisions that hurt people including yourself. Try answering “When are you coming home?” when you don’t have a real answer.
You learn to speak carefully. You learn not to promise what you can’t deliver. And you learn how heavy truth can be when it’s filtered through a child’s eyes.
The Punishment Nobody Sentenced Them To
My sentence didn’t just belong to me.
My kids didn’t stand in front of a judge. They didn’t sign paperwork. They didn’t make my choices. And yet they serve time too through missed moments, broken routines, and the quiet confusion of growing up without their father present.
They bounce between caregivers. They adapt when they shouldn’t have to. They learn independence too early. And society acts surprised later when they struggle with trust, anger, or belonging.
We talk a lot about “breaking cycles,” but we rarely talk about how aggressively we help create them.
How Prison Redefines Fatherhood and Responsibility
Prison strips away distractions. You don’t have your usual escapes. No numbing. No pretending you’re too busy to feel.
So you sit with it.
You think about the kind of man you were before the cuffs. You think about the moments you showed up and the ones you didn’t. You think about how your kids will remember you: as an absence, or as someone who changed.
For me, love in here looks like discipline. Routine. Growth. It looks like choosing not to stay the same man who walked in.
Because missing your kids is painful. But becoming the kind of father they deserve takes work and excuses don’t raise children.
An Ordinary Prison Moment That Changed Me
Every night, the lights dim at the same time. The unit goes quiet except for coughing, footsteps, and the occasional laugh that sounds forced.
One night, I was folding a letter from my son. He had written my name crooked, crossed it out, and written “Dad” underneath.
That small correction hit harder than anything I’d felt in months.
It reminded me that no matter where I am, I’m still his father. And what I do with this time matters.
That night, I stopped wasting hours. I started reading parenting books from the library. I signed up for every class I could. Not because it looked good on paper but because my kids don’t need excuses. They need effort.
Responsibility Without Self-Destruction
Here’s the balance most men struggle with in here:
You can take responsibility without destroying yourself.
Beating yourself up doesn’t make you a better father. Avoiding accountability doesn’t either.
Real growth is quieter than both.
It’s admitting where you failed.
It’s learning new skills instead of repeating old patterns.
It’s understanding that shame paralyzes, but responsibility mobilizes.
Your kids don’t need a perfect father. They need a present one emotionally, mentally, spiritually even from behind bars.
Learn More About: Parenting Programs for Incarcerated Fathers
Brotherhood in an Unlikely Place
One thing the outside doesn’t see: fathers in prison support each other in ways no program ever could.
We trade photos. We remind each other of visitation dates. We stand nearby when someone gets bad news from home. We don’t always talk about feelings, but we show up.
There’s something powerful about men who know they failed and refuse to stay there.
In here, fatherhood becomes a shared language. A reminder that we’re more than our worst decision.
The Emotional Cost of Fatherhood in Prison
Mail call is dangerous for a father.
A letter can lift you for days or crush you in seconds.
My daughter once wrote, “I saved you a seat at my school thing but you didn’t come.”
That sentence sat with me longer than my charge ever has.
But those letters also fuel something else: determination.
They remind me that my story isn’t finished. That my kids are watching who I become, not just what I did.
What Rehabilitation Should Actually Mean
Rehabilitation isn’t punishment for punishment’s sake.
It’s transformation.
A system that wants men to come home better fathers should invest in education, counseling, parenting programs, and reentry support not just confinement.
You can’t teach responsibility by removing every chance to practice it.
And you can’t expect men to lead families if you never help them learn how.
A Message to My Children
If my kids ever read this, I want them to know this:
I am sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.
I am not proud of the choices that brought me here.
But I am proud of the work I’m doing now.
I am becoming a man who listens.
A man who takes responsibility.
A man who understands that love is shown through consistency, honesty, and growth.
And I will keep doing that work whether I’m inside these walls or outside them.
A Message to Other Fathers Doing Time
If you’re a father reading this, hear me clearly:
You are not finished.
You are not useless.
You are not beyond repair.
Use this time. Don’t waste it numbing out or blaming the world. Heal the parts of you that hurt your kids indirectly. Learn what you were never taught.
Your children don’t need you perfect.
They need you accountable.
They need you present in whatever way you can be right now.
The Long View
One day, these gates will open.
When they do, the question won’t be “How long were you gone?”
It will be “Who did you become while you were away?”
I want my kids to see a father who faced his failures and chose discipline over denial. A man who didn’t let prison turn him bitter but let it make him better.
Steel and concrete can separate bodies.
They can’t erase fatherhood.
And love real love doesn’t stop at the gate.
Read More: 7 Proven Prison Survival Rules for Navigating Power Without Losing Yourself
