New York Times Celebrates Father’s Day By Running ‘Bearded Women Can Replace Dads’ Propaganda

The 'trans dad' cartoon op-ed is a reminder that the legacy media have a sneering disdain for real fathers — and reality.

My Kids Are Alive Because Their Dad Fought For Them

Sometimes the greatest blessings come wrapped in the things we were once most afraid of.

Ignore the media whining — today's dads do more than ever, at work AND at home



The American dad has spent the last 40 years serving as the culture’s favorite punching bag.

From the misanthropic, couch-locked Al Bundy in "Married... with Children" to the bumbling, well-meaning hazard-to-himself Phil Dunphy in "Modern Family," Hollywood conditioned us to view fathers as overgrown teenagers.

The massive domestic imbalance that has inspired a million angry think pieces is virtually nonexistent in the data.

They were the morons who couldn't find the milk in an open fridge even after moving everything except the milk, the slow-witted domestic saboteurs who would accidentally incinerate the kitchen if left unattended for 20 minutes.

For decades, the consensus was clear: Men were biologically, or perhaps pathologically, unfit for adult responsibility.

Different breed

Then came the modern panic over falling birth rates, and the blame was promptly dumped at the feet of these cinematic man-children. Women, the conventional wisdom claimed, were refusing to breed because men refused to grow up. If only dads would stop playing video games, put on pants, and learn how to operate a vacuum, fertility rates would soar.

It's a convenient narrative. The only problem is that it happens to be wrong. A recent report from the Institute for Family Studies dismantles it entirely. The myth of the detached, useless dad is officially dead.

Far from dodging domestic duties, modern American fathers are putting in an enormous amount of time at home.

In the mid-1960s, a married father with young children spent fewer than 10 hours per week on household chores and child care combined. Never mind the all the other hours spent earning the money to put a roof overhead and food on the table — the average dad had a reputation for being terminally checked out, loafing through family life behind the sports pages.

That stereotype is now hopelessly out of date. Today, married fathers spend close to 30 hours per week on household chores and child care. In little more than half a century, paternal involvement has tripled.

Quantity time

Meanwhile, appliances evolved. Washing machines, dishwashers, and robot vacuums eliminated the soul-destroying physical labor of the past, reducing the hours required to maintain a home. But instead of using that freed-up time to drink scotch in a recliner, the modern father rolled up his sleeves and absorbed the extra hours.

Married fathers now spend roughly 45 hours per week directly in the presence of their kids. In other words, dad isn't just providing a paycheck any more. This is a man wearing half a dozen hats: chauffeur, soccer coach, homework warden, amateur therapist, technology troubleshooter, and occasional short-order cook. He is expected to be present for every bedtime routine, school recital, and emotional wobble.

Even Steven

The most shocking revelation from the IFS report comes when you look at the total workload. When researchers tallied up paid employment, unpaid labor, child care, and household obligations, they discovered something remarkable. Today, married mothers and married fathers of young children each average roughly 63 hours per week of combined labor.

The massive domestic imbalance that has inspired a million angry think pieces is virtually nonexistent in the data. Both parents are working long, exhausting hours. Both are making massive personal sacrifices.

This completely flips the fertility debate on its head. If fathers are already maxed out, increasing paternal participation isn't the magic cure for declining birth rates. More importantly, it tears up the old script that men can't be trusted with a grocery list, let alone a young child.

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Bubble-wrapped childhood

However, this hyper-involved, positive picture of modern fatherhood does come with an important caveat: the rise of over-parenting. In the past, parents let their children wander the neighborhood until the streetlights came on — partly out of trust and partly because they just wanted them out of their sight.

Today, children are rarely left unsupervised. Teenagers spend less time with friends, neighborhoods are less connected than they once were, and parents increasingly feel obliged to schedule every waking minute of their children's lives. What used to be an afternoon of "go outside and be home by dinner" now requires a color-coded calendar.

This total elimination of childhood freedom has created a new kind of claustrophobic family dynamic. By bubble-wrapping their offspring, modern dads are inadvertently raising a generation of anxious, hyper-dependent kids who can't make a decision without a text thread consultation.

Thank a dad

Furthermore, this extreme devotion has exacted a heavy toll on men's mental health. Time is finite. Every hour spent curating a child's resume or driving to a travel-team baseball game in another state is an hour stolen from personal maintenance. There are only so many hours in a day. Increasingly, fathers have paid for their expanded responsibilities with their own leisure, hobbies, and friendships. The modern dad has sacrificed his own social survival network on the altar of family responsibility.

Despite the dangers of helicopter parenting, the overarching reality is shifting toward something undeniably positive. American fathers didn’t shy away from changing social expectations. If anything, they adapted with remarkable speed. If the old model of fatherhood was largely financial, the new model demands presence, participation, and constant engagement. And, as the report shows, millions of fathers have embraced it.

So this Father's Day, if you're lucky enough to still have one, thank your dad. And if you've spent years insisting fathers don't show up, don't care, or don't pull their weight, the evidence suggests you might owe him an apology as well.

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Fishing with my dying father



On the North Norfolk coast, dawn is more sensory than visual.

Sea lavender and samphire engulf you before the bite of the wind reminds you of nature’s power. As the sun rises above the horizon, my father and I cross the salt marshes, the light revealing tidal creeks winding through the mudflats. This time, though, I know it is our last trip together.

In angling, the tippet is the thinnest section of line, the point most likely to fail.

Every step is taken with the knowledge that these rituals — these early mornings, the scent of salt and wildflowers, the quiet companionship — are being performed for the final time.

Silence as stewardship

This is not just a landscape but a stage on which the story of my family unfolds. Each tradition echoes those who came before and those still to come. This place, and these shared customs repeated year after year, have woven our family history together — each visit another stitch in a tapestry stretched across generations.

There is no better place for solitude than Stiffkey, an idyllic village nestled in the Norfolk countryside. For miles around, the only sounds are wood pigeons cooing in the trees and the distant thunder of the sea. It is still very early — five in the morning — when we break this peace with the rhythmic punch of a shovel digging into saturated sand. My father and I do not speak as we work. Ours is a silence filled with meaning, a language shaped by years of tradition and respect for the world around us.

The rhythm of these mornings — the shared labor, the quiet companionship — blurs the boundaries between past and present, between father and son, creating a continuous thread running through my memory. Growing up, my father and I mainly communicated through the tension of a fishing line. Our family has never been big on talking; we are like frayed strings, bound and spliced together by tradition.

In the modern world, silence between two men is often treated as a void to be filled with noise. But on this stretch of coastline, silence is a form of stewardship. To be quiet is to respect the natural world. To be quiet together is to acknowledge a bond that does not require speech.

Here time folds in on itself — my father’s footsteps merging with his father’s, and mine with both of theirs.

Stiffkey blues

My father brought us to Stiffkey every year for our family holiday. For decades, this was his parish. He moved through the shifting terrain with the confidence of a man who knew the tide’s schedule like the back of his hand.

This time, watching him navigate the narrow ravines in the soft morning light, I see not the man who first guided me to the water 20 years earlier but his shadow. His light has dimmed — but it is still bright enough to guide us.

The lessons of Stiffkey are as much about patience, respect, and inheritance as they are about fishing. Each action — from digging bait to laying lines — forms a thread in the fabric of our shared history.

Laying fishing lines is a skill. The tide’s timing and direction determine how the lines must be slanted to catch fish. Digging your own bait matters too; no competent angler wants to carry unnecessary weight from home.

You take only what you need, while respecting the land and sea. From an early age, this was the lesson my father taught me: We are merely guardians, entrusted with care until it is time to pass things on.

“The ragworms aren’t biting,” I would tell him. He would approach with his antalgic gait, quietly move my shovel a few feet, and say, softly but with conviction, “Dig between the holes — that’s where they live.” Ten minutes later, the plastic bucket would overflow.

These moments bridge generations, passing down not just skill but belonging. This was where my grandfather taught my father to fish. Decades later, my father stood here teaching me.

A disused sewage pipe stretches northward, its end disappearing beneath the waves of the North Sea, marked only by a lone orange buoy. With an upturned wooden rake slung over my shoulder, its worn teeth piercing an old onion sack, I would walk the length of the pipeline. I can still feel the chill of rusted metal beneath my bare feet and my father’s watchful eyes — stern yet generous — urging me on. Together we raked the mudflats for cockles, the famed “Stiffkey blues,” once plentiful, now sought like hidden treasure.

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The cycle of care

Every sensory detail — the cold pipeline, the mudflats, the weight of the rake — anchors memory to place, making past and present inseparable.

Trust and love, learned in my father’s shadow, now guide me as I support him. The cycle of care turns gently but inexorably.

My father's name is Peter. As his name suggests, he was always my rock — my moral guide — and I followed him with a child’s absolute confidence. Now the roles have quietly reversed. I lead; he leans on my shoulder.

The symbolism of the tippet — its fragility and strength — mirrors this transfer of responsibility. In angling, the tippet is the thinnest section of line, the point most likely to fail. As I watch my father struggle with the nylon — his hands, calloused by 50 years of labor, unable to tie the hook — it becomes clear that we are in the tippet phase of our relationship.

I take over, tying a grinner knot. He has taught me this a thousand times, but today feels different. As I pull the knot tight, I feel the weight of his legacy. He is handing over the keys to his kingdom.

The weight of a soul

At daybreak the following morning, we set off with the same excitement I once felt as a 5-year-old. His unspoken lesson had always been that disappointment should be met with patience. Then there it is: a solitary bass, glistening in the early sun. His hands tremble as he holds it up, smiling. On the walk back to the car, we laugh as seagulls swoop in, trying to steal our catch.

As our roles shifted, so did my understanding. Fishing became a meditation on acceptance, mortality, and shared silence. Fishing with a dying father reminds you that life is finite. It shows that the boundary between this world and the next is as thin as a fishing line — fragile, transparent, yet strong enough to bear the weight of a soul.

Even after loss, the rituals persist. Each return to Stiffkey is both goodbye and renewal. The year after his death, I returned to scatter his ashes. As the wind carried him out to sea, I understood that life’s true tippet strength is not measured by where it breaks but by what it can hold before it does.

My mother was evil; here's how I help others face their own abusive childhoods



Almost every coaching client I serve says something like this:

“What am I supposed to think about my mother? I don’t want to think of her as a bad person, but would a good person treat her children the way our mother treated me and my brothers and sisters?”

These good shards of her personality could never coalesce into a normal-range person. But I have an idea of who that woman could have been.

Who are these clients, and what am I doing with them that we’d be talking about this?

If I were a licensed mental health “professional,” you’d call what I do counseling. Since I’m not a licensed professional, I call it personal coaching and consulting. As a man who was raised by a mother deranged with borderline and narcissistic personality disorders and who became a self-destructive alcoholic for much of his life, I offer peer support and advice from someone who lived it.

Accepting reality

Let’s return to the question we opened with. No, a good person would not abuse her children the way the parents of my clients treated them. That’s the answer that many people don’t want to hear. But accepting the ugly reality of an abusive parent is a minimum requirement for getting past the psychological damage this inflicts on children who later become damaged adults.

For many people who grew up this way, accepting reality is necessary but not sufficient. They don’t know what to do with the memories of the good times, the apparent kindnesses they remember from otherwise frightening parents. I’m going to come back to this below with some stories about how I’ve turned this over in my mind as I’ve tried to grapple with who my abusive mother really was.

How did the parents of my clients treat them? Many of my clients had parents who threatened or attempted suicide in order to extract care and pity from their children. Some of my clients were nearly killed by their fathers. (Yes, I mean that the fathers consciously, knowingly tried to kill them; strangulation is the usual method.) Some were pimped out as prostitutes by their mothers.

Not everyone had such a florid experience, but nearly everyone I serve was raised by a parent who could not be trusted. My clients were abused as children. Actually abused, not “TikTok” abused. They don’t ruminate on how being denied an ice cream cone at age 8 ruined their lives. Instead they’re people who suffered under cold, capricious, and sometimes sadistic parents. And decades later, these adults who never did anything to deserve what they got still feel it is their fault their mother didn’t love them.

A moral problem

As I’ve written about before, we are living in an age characterized by what are known as Cluster B personality disorders. These are better thought of as character disorders, in the vein of psychologist George K. Simon. He’s one of the few practicing and writing psychologists who recognize that people who are intensely narcissistic, exploitative, manipulative, dishonest, and cruel are not suffering from a medical problem. They are suffering from a moral and spiritual problem. A personality disorder is not an organic brain problem. It is not a “disability.” It is not diabetes. It is the state of having an immoral and warped personal character.

My goal with clients is to give them a kind of conversation that will allow them to see, and to accept, the reality of their parents’ derangement. If you grew up in a normal, loving family, you may have a hard time accepting that I’m telling you the truth about what kinds of people these parents were to their kids. There is a taboo against acknowledging that some mothers (it’s not symmetrical; people have no problem believing this of fathers) do not love their children and try to annihilate them.

To hell with the taboo. Reality doesn’t conform to what we prefer to feel.

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Emotional balance sheet

Grown children from abusive homes usually don’t know, or can’t accept, that their parents were bad people. Many of my clients hesitate to use the word “abuse,” even a moment after a client tells me a story about how her mother hit on her teenaged boyfriend and then slapped the daughter, accusing her of being a slut. Genuinely abused children spend decades denying the truth and working overtime to rehabilitate the image of a grossly destructive father or mother. It is only when alcoholism, depression, or a string of failed relationships drive them to despair that they’re ready to take steps toward telling the truth.

When a person crosses the threshold and accepts that her mother or father was not a good person, did not “do their best,” and did not really love their children, she’s made enormous progress. This is the first and most important goal in recovering equanimity. But it’s not enough for many of us. What are we to do with the good memories? How are we to see our mother when we remember the times she imparted skills and wisdom to us? How do those affect the emotional balance sheet’s bottom line?

I’m going to concede something but with an important proviso: Yes, it’s generally true that no person is all good or all bad. But here’s the proviso: The kind of parents we’re talking about are not “a normal mix of good and bad.” We’re talking about parents who are, to a close approximation, 95% “bad” and only 5% “good.”

The arithmetic on that is straightforward. Five percent achievement will not get you a passing grade on a test, and it does not give these adults a passing moral grade for parenthood.

Glimpses of good

Still what about the good times? I’ve thought about this for years. I’ve talked about it with my (non-woke, conservative, old-school) therapist for years, and it’s been on my mind lately.

Back in the late '80s, my mother and I were watching TV, and something came up about women’s place in society, how to have a career and a family at the same time. We’ve all heard these topics discussed for decades; it was one of those times when something “truthful-ish” leaked out in my mother’s conversation.

My mother was a deranged woman with borderline and narcissistic personality disorders. She was abusive and horrible. I use the past tense even though she’s still alive because I permanently removed her from my life 10 years ago.

But there were times when a real person glimmered through. Sometimes you could see and hear the intelligent, insightful woman she could have been if her good qualities hadn’t been subsumed by her moral and psychiatric derangement.

The mother she wanted to be

This conversation in the '80s was one of those times. I remember it so well because it’s one of my memory’s best examples of the woman I hoped she truly was — the woman who could have been the good mother that deep down I think she wanted to be but could not.

We were listening to the TV discussion. I don’t remember the specifics, just that it was filled with the usual pat feminist answers that contradicted each other and demanded a world of circumstances for women that was never realistic. Having cake and eating it too, that sort of thing.

My mother reflected on all that, and she had this to say:

“It’s impossible for you to understand how strong the biological drive to have children is for women. We like to pretend it isn’t real and say it’s not real, but it is. A woman can feel the pull, and it’s overwhelming. I wanted to be a mother and have children since I was a little girl. It’s all I wanted to be.”

Living with the contradiction

This was true but only sometimes. My mother had borderline personality disorder, and such people have extreme and often opposing desires that conflict with each other. Their problem is that they don’t know how to integrate these conflicts, or how to live with the conflict and ambiguity. So instead of acknowledging the conflict, they pretend it’s not there. The next day, for example, my mother could rail at the top of her lungs about how women were enslaved, how they had a right to be “more than just mothers.”

A contradiction, yes, but an understandable one. My mother would have been better off if she’d found some way to live with the conflicts that most women feel, especially in a society that treats the status of women and mothers in such a, well, borderline way. My mother may have been crazy globally, but she was not “crazy” to react badly to these contradictory messages.

She also said this:

“Young women are making a mistake waiting so long to have children. You just don’t have the energy at 30 or 35 that you have when you’re 20. It’s not the same. Women were built to have children, and we were built to have them as young women. Today’s mothers are going to have problems they’re not counting on because they waited so long.”

She was right. Even my mother, a florid Cluster B personality case, could see the truth in traditional wisdom. Even she, a screeching feminist liberal, could admit that men and women were built differently and that women had biological drives to bear children.

Unanswered questions

My mother and I had many conversations like that over the years. Long talks where honesty crept in, even if it was gone the next day. I remember them so well because they showed the woman she could have been, they showed the best of her intellect and perception.

I miss them. I do know, of course, that there wasn’t a stable version of my mother just waiting to blossom. These good shards of her personality could never coalesce into a normal-range person. But I have an idea of who that woman could have been.

So it goes with many of my clients. A son remembers his intensely selfish and punitive father who sometimes imparted helpful wisdom. A daughter remembers a mother who once took real joy watching her daughter graduate from college, even though the week before, mom overdosed on pills in a sick bid for attention.

Who are these people? We may never know. This is not how I want to end this essay. I don’t like unanswered questions and puzzles that can’t be solved. Nevertheless here they are.

When fathers fall, grace asks more of us



Families gather for all sorts of reasons — Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings, funerals. And sometimes that’s when the fireworks start. There’s an old joke that any family gathering where the cops aren’t called is a successful one. Beneath the laughter sits a truth most families know. When people with long memories sit at the same table, old hurts rise right alongside the cranberry sauce.

Sin fractured families long before politics did. It divides hearts, poisons conversations, and leaves scars that last for generations. Every family bears some of that damage, and nowhere does the fracture cut deeper than between fathers and children.

Every father fails in some way, and those failures bring deep sadness. Grief isn’t a sin. Derision and resentment are.

A caller once told me about his alcoholic father, who had been abusive for years. The caller was 52, yet when he talked about being around his father, his voice broke. “Every time I’m around him,” he said, “I feel like I’m 9 years old.” The man’s father had fallen and now needed care, but the wounds had not healed. His wife and children were watching, waiting to see what he would do. His father was still drinking, still choosing the same path.

I told him, “You’ve made sure your father has food and care, but you’re not required to be subservient. Your family counts on you. Your father continues to make destructive choices, and you can’t change that. Your family’s well-being cannot come at the expense of his demands. He may not make it — but you have to.”

That conversation stayed with me. It reminded me how hard it is to see a parent’s weakness and not respond in anger or disgust or fear. We want to fix it, mock it, punish it, or walk away. Yet scripture gives us a different picture of what honor can look like when a father’s failings are laid bare.

After the flood, Noah planted a vineyard, drank too much, and passed out naked in his tent. His son Ham saw him exposed and mocked his shame. His brothers, Shem and Japheth, took a blanket, walked backward, and covered him.

It wasn’t easy. I imagine Shem and Japheth groaning at the sight of their father — maybe with tears in their eyes. Some fathers decline; some abandon; but every father fails in some way, and those failures bring deep sadness. Grief isn’t a sin. Derision and resentment are.

What do we do when we see our fathers in their weakness? When bitterness stirs, when old wounds reopen, when the urge to expose feels justified? The man who once loomed large now looks small. He wielded power over a child but appears diminished, not just by age but by the perspective that comes with time. That truth can stir anger or sorrow — or offer release.

In the garden, when Adam and Eve sinned, they saw their own nakedness for the first time and tried to cover it with leaves. The first act of grace in scripture was God covering their shame with garments He made Himself. Blood was shed to make those coverings — a quiet foreshadowing of what grace would one day cost.

That moment wasn’t about modesty. It was mercy. God did for them what they could not do for themselves. He covered their shame. From that moment on, grace has always moved toward covering — not humiliating.

At the cross, the story reached its fulfillment. The Son of God allowed Himself to be stripped bare. He bore the nakedness that belonged to us. What began in Eden with God covering human shame ended on Calvary with Christ carrying it. We were clothed in mercy because the innocent one was exposed.

Jesus told another story about a father and his sons. One rebelled and returned in disgrace. The other stayed but grew proud and resentful. Both disrespected their father — one through sin, the other through scorn. Yet the father ran to meet the prodigal and later went out to plead with the older son. He carried the same heart as Shem and Japheth. He covered shame, and even resentment, with grace.

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Caregiving brings old wounds to the surface fast, and the holidays push them even closer to the edge. Many caregivers know this. They spend their days covering weakness — with blankets, patience, or prayer. They honor parents who can’t return the favor, who may not even recognize them anymore. Sometimes they protect in spite of, not because of. Some fathers, like that caller’s, won’t change. But we can.

At some holiday tables, people say, “Please pass the turkey,” when what they really want to say is, “Why can’t you?” or “Why didn’t you?” Those moments expose the gap between what we feel and what we’re called to.

Some fathers failed in ways that make reconciliation impossible. Honoring them does not mean returning to harm, pretending nothing happened, or carrying the weight of their failures. Their shame is not ours to bear. But we’re also not given permission to parade it.

So we honor the office, tell the truth, and set safe boundaries. We refuse to be shaped by their sin and trust God to deal with what belongs to Him. And because grace covers us, we can choose dignity over bitterness — even when fathers fall.

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Why Hollywood’s ‘Nobody’ is every father today



If you’re old enough, you remember Clark Griswold — Chevy Chase’s bumbling but optimistic dad in “National Lampoon’s Vacation” — dragging his family across the country to reach Wally World. After a trail of disasters, Clark got his family to the gates, only to find the theme park closed. Undeterred, he improvised, fought back (in his slapstick way), and refused to give up on his promise to deliver joy.

Fast-forward to today. Warning: This article includes spoilers.

'Nobody 2' isn’t really about bullets and bloodshed. It’s about fathers who refuse to quit.

In “Nobody 2,” we meet Hutch (Bob Odenkirk), a far cry from Clark Griswold. Think “Vacation” meets “John Wick.” Hutch is a quiet father under siege by a world that won’t leave him alone. He struggles to shield his family not only from criminals but also from the toll the fight takes on his time and soul.

So Hutch does what Clark did: He plans a family trip, hoping to reclaim some peace. Instead, everything explodes — literally. A sadistic crime boss, a brutal syndicate, and one gut-wrenching moment when a security guard strikes his daughter. Hutch erupts, not for revenge, but to protect the people he loves most.

Fathers against a hostile culture

That arc — from Clark’s comedy of errors to Hutch’s bloody brawls — tells us something about our culture. In 1983, dads were goofs trying to make memories. In 2025, they’re embattled guardians. The father who simply wants to provide and protect finds himself waging war against a culture that derides family, treats children as disposable or designable, and mocks traditional marriage as oppressive.

The threats aren’t just cinematic. Fathers fight mountains of bills, debt, and cultural poison pumped daily into their children’s minds — DEI’s racial grievance, the LGBTQ+ lobby’s sex radicalism, and a constant drumbeat that undermines fatherhood itself.

Men are told they’re helpless. But they’re not. A father’s job is to lead his family toward the good life, armed with truth and love.

The 'nobody' every man

Hutch is called a “nobody” because that’s how the world sees him — the quiet everyman doing his duty, not chasing glory. But that’s exactly what makes him extraordinary. He embodies what fathers have always wanted: the best for their children and the enduring love of their wives.

The emotional heart of the film comes when Hutch tells his father, “I just want my son to be a better man than I am.” That is fatherhood distilled. We know our limits, we know our failures, and we want our sons to rise higher.

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And here’s the twist feminists won’t like. The final villain — a shriveled old woman who embodies bitter family-hatred — isn’t defeated by Hutch. She’s finished off by his wife, Becca (Connie Nielsen). Far from sidelined, she stands as his partner, the helper he needs to secure a future for their children.

Better men

It’s all metaphor, maybe allegory. “Nobody 2” isn’t really about bullets and bloodshed. It’s about fathers who refuse to quit. Men who insist that their families are worth everything. Husbands who know their sons can and must be better men.

The Griswolds made us laugh four decades ago. Hutch forces us to face what’s at stake today for fathers.