When Fatherhood Feels Like Failure

I didn’t expect to end the day with both my sons in tears. It wasn’t because of punishment or misbehavior. It wasn’t one of those discipline days. I was simply trying to help them grow. I wanted to guide them through things that would make them stronger. But somehow, both moments, completely different in form, ended with tears. And as I sat with each of them in their own breaking point, I began to realize this might not be failure. It might be formation.

Crying Over Spelling and Sweat

It started with Eann in the evening. He had just come home from school and was engrossed in his origami, something he really loves. I told him he could continue once we finished his spelling and Ejaan practice. There were ten English words and six Malay ones. Not much on paper, but it stretched into a solid hour. He was tired. His focus kept slipping. We tried again and again, but even after that much time, he couldn’t get everything right.

And then it happened. His eyes welled up and the tears came. Quietly. Not a tantrum. Not an outburst. Just emotional exhaustion that caught up with his little body and spirit. As his father, it was painful to watch. It would’ve been easy, almost reflexive, to say something like, “Why can’t you remember? It’s not that hard.” But I didn’t. I caught myself in that moment and chose something else. I chose to hold his hand instead.

I told him, “Daddy knows you tried your best. I love you.” I hugged him close, prayed with him, and kissed him on the head before tucking him into bed. I could feel his breathing slow down. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little. There was something sacred about that moment. Not because he aced his spelling, but because he didn’t. And I stayed with him anyway.

The Prefrontal Cortex Can’t Spell That Fast

Later, I thought about why a simple spelling test could feel so overwhelming. And of course, there’s science behind it. At Eann’s age, his brain is still wiring itself, particularly the prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for managing emotion and logical sequencing. What seems like a small task to us is actually a huge cognitive load for a seven-year-old. Add on the layer of wanting to meet expectations and fearing disappointment, and it becomes a perfect storm for emotional overload.

Harvard’s Center on the Developing Child has written about how children experience stress more intensely than adults do, especially when the stress is tied to approval, expectations, or unfamiliar pressure. That’s what I saw in Eann’s eyes. It wasn’t about spelling. It was about being enough.

A Workout Too Close to the Heart

That wasn’t even the first moment of breakdown that day. It started earlier with Aden, my eldest. Around 5 p.m., I had picked both boys up from school and carved out 20 minutes for a HIIT workout. Sports Day was coming up, and I wanted to help them build their core strength. Time was short, so I figured a quick, high-intensity session would be enough to get them prepped. But even for me, it was intense. And for Aden, who’s a bit heavier and not used to this level of exertion, it became too much.

About halfway through, I saw his body start to give in. He sat down, exhausted, trying not to cry but unable to hold it in. This wasn’t laziness. It was overwhelm. His face was flushed. His breathing was fast. And I could tell he was trying to push through. There was a moment I shifted into that army-coach tone, encouraging him to keep going. Not yelling, but firm. “Come on, Aden. Just one more.” He tried. He really did. He rested. Then worked. Then rested again.

Afterward, I decided we needed to change the tone of the day. In the car, I opened the rooftop and told them to shout out affirmations. Not because I needed a performance, but because I wanted to replace their internal voices of defeat with something more powerful. So I started. “Life is tough.” They repeated, a little uncertain at first. “Be tougher.” “I am the champion.” “I’ll do my best.” And finally, “I’ll never give up.”

Aden, still wiping his tears, shouted every line. Not with forced cheer, but with something real. I saw it in his eyes. This was not a boy pretending to be strong. This was a boy learning that strength can exist even in the middle of tears.

The Muscle Must Tear to Grow

We often forget that growth comes with strain. Muscles don’t get stronger through comfort. They get stronger by tearing, just a little, then rebuilding. That’s how strength is formed, through stress and rest.

That night, both of my sons experienced a kind of emotional muscle tear. And I realized that this wasn’t something to avoid. It was something to hold gently. Just like you wouldn’t yell at a child who scraped their knee, you shouldn’t shame a child for crying under pressure. You sit with them. You stay. And slowly, they heal stronger.

That’s true for leadership too. Push people without care, and they burn out. Never challenge them, and they wither. But walk with them, really walk, and they’ll grow in ways even they can’t imagine.

Not About Doing More. About Being More Present.

As I walked Loki, our dog, later that night, I felt strangely grateful. Not proud because they performed. Not relieved because the day was over. Just thankful. Thankful that I had the time and presence to go through those moments with them. Moments that most people would consider routine, but to me, felt profound.

Earlier that day, I had shared an old photo of my father and me, taken 15 years ago. My sons looked at it and said, “Wow, you look so young!” I laughed at first. But then it sunk in. Fifteen years. Gone just like that. And someday, these spelling sessions and workouts will be memories. Maybe even photos.

That’s when I told myself: I can’t stop time. But I can be there. Fully. Because presence is the only way I know to slow it down, even if just for a moment.

Premortem: Avoiding Regret Before It Arrives

We talk a lot about postmortems, looking back to analyze what went wrong. But I’ve started to practice something else: premortem reflection. Thinking ahead to what I might regret if I’m not careful now.

I asked myself that night: What would I regret more? Spending an hour helping Eann with spelling, or rushing him so I could move on with my night?

The answer was obvious. I’d regret missing that moment. Missing the hug. Missing the look in his eyes when he knew he was safe, even without a perfect score.

So I stayed. I leaned in. And I learned something.

Leadership, at home or at work, isn’t about doing everything right. It’s about doing the right things, even when they’re hard. Especially when they’re hard.

Mistakes I’m Still Paying For

There are mistakes I’ve made that I’m still paying for. Financial decisions that turned into long-term consequences. I won’t sugarcoat it. Every month, I feel the sting. I still pay the price, literally. But I also receive something from that pain. Clarity. Sobriety. A fierce commitment not to repeat it.

And in a strange way, I’m thankful. I’ve come to believe that wisdom isn’t just about avoiding mistakes. It’s about how you respond to them when they happen. Do you deny them? Justify them? Or do you let them shape you?

Pain has been a better teacher than pride ever was.

Low Effort. High Impact.

Before the night ended, I ordered some buns for my wife. Just something simple for her to enjoy the next day. A gesture to say, “I see you.” She’s carried the weight of motherhood through sleepless nights, countless tasks, and emotional labor I can never fully comprehend. Sometimes, the smallest gestures carry the loudest love.

A bun. A check-in text. A pause to ask, “How are you feeling?”

In the rush of leadership, these are the low-effort, high-impact actions that matter most. Not because they’re flashy. But because they’re real.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The longer I live, the more I see this truth. The opposite of breakthrough isn’t failure. It’s avoidance.

We fear failure so much that we forget avoidance is often more damaging. If I had avoided the spelling session, or backed off from the workout, or rushed past their pain, I wouldn’t have made them stronger. I would have robbed them of the struggle that builds strength. And I would’ve robbed myself of the privilege to walk with them through it.

Breakdown is not something to be ashamed of. It’s something to be present for. It’s where we grow. It’s where we’re made.

And it’s in those quiet, unseen moments, of holding a hand, sitting through a cry, or whispering encouragement into the night, that the real breakthroughs begin.