Being a working dad can be a challenge, but Karthik Rajan shows us how to draw the two into a rich tapestry of experiences and apply them to each other.
DiaryDad’s kids are ready to be part of the conversation; now if only he could see that. I blew it with my kids the one night a little over a year ago… The worst part about it is that I didn’t realize it until after I had started to get mad at them for a situation that […]
Laura Foley captures the pain of being a mother unable to help an adult son in this stark poem.
Barry Adkins walked 1,400 miles to speak in different schools about his loss of a son due to binge drinking. But the walk itself showed him so much – forgiveness, grief, and moving forward.
Lois Roma-Deeley remembers an Italian-American father, his Lincoln, and the magic they evoked.
The sky was crying. It was an unusually misty day in Joplin, Missouri, as they laid my Angel in her grave. A friend dropped a single red rose on top of the half-sized casket. It was done. My baby was gone.
My wife of eight years confessed: she was seeing someone, and she was pregnant by another man. The child wasn’t mine. That was just the beginning.
A boy crosses the threshold to manhood in Joy Ladin’s poem, but he’s not the only one who has changed.
Our self-esteem is exceptionally low. Our addicted parents were unable to provide the love and nurturing we required to form secure attachment.
Douglas Luman considers boyhood and the difficulties of growing up in this “sourced poem.”
How do you figure out how to be in her presence—have a relationship with her—while not allowing yourself to be sucked into the vortex of her emotions?
His father taught him through his example. That’s how he’s teaching his children. — You’re a natural sponge. This isn’t a process you have to learn, or something you can force. Don’t have a sit-down meeting with your friends and discuss the ways they should help you grow. That would be crazy. This is a […]
So much of who we are comes from our childhoods; how we learn to deal with pain, how we learn to cope, and how we learn to overcome.
Nora Meiners writes as the white mother of a biracial son, reflecting on black male bodies and the perils that attend them.
Just in the telling of the abuse, you are honoring the child who still remembers the pain. The confusion. The dread. The fear. And you are connecting with that child within you. Soothing him or her.