by Tom Decker
I want to begin with a simple acknowledgment. In a season marked by prolonged stress, uncertainty, and high stakes, there have been moments when my words—whether in passing conversations, private exchanges, or quick texts—may have come across as sharp, guarded, or more forceful than I intended. If that has been your experience of me, I want you to know it was never rooted in disregard or hostility. It came from carrying responsibility in real time, often without the luxury of clarity or rest, and from trying—sometimes imperfectly—to protect the people I love while finding my way through complexity.
Much of what I am navigating happens in fragments—partial conversations, second-hand impressions, moments taken out of context. In those fragments, my actions can look rigid, controlling, or unnecessarily difficult. I understand how that can happen. What often isn’t visible is the full picture: the accumulation of responsibility, the long arc of care, and the quiet decisions made when there are no good options—only less harmful ones.
I hold one boundary very clearly: children should never be made to carry the weight of adult conflict. I work intentionally to keep that line intact. I am human and imperfect, and I do not pretend otherwise. But I am deliberate about protecting my children’s emotional safety and their right to be children rather than mediators, messengers, or explanations.
I believe our son has the right to become who he is, without being threatened, diminished, or belittled for his wishes simply because they are his. My goal as his father is not control, compliance, or allegiance. It is relationship—not one that begins or ends on his eighteenth birthday, but one that lasts the next twenty, thirty, or forty years, built through mutual respect, honesty, and learning how to navigate the world together.
I do not ask my children to carry my emotional needs. I do, however, ask them for clarity and feedback about how my actions land, because I am doing something I have never done before: raising a seventeen-year-old son and a sixteen-year-old daughter. I approach that responsibility with humility. I do not claim expertise. I claim presence.
I do not love my son more than I love my daughter. I love them differently only in the ways their lives and experiences are different. I once was a seventeen-year-old boy; I have never been a teenage girl. I name that openly. I invite them to teach me what I do not know, and I let them see me learning in real time. That, too, is part of how I parent.
I am intentional about making one thing unmistakably clear to both of my children: my love is not transactional. It does not rise or fall with my mood, my health, or the circumstances of the moment. It is not earned through compliance or agreement. It is steady, durable, and unchanged—even when things are hard.
When people ask why I insist on structure, follow-through, or continuity—especially when flexibility feels easier—I understand the question. What they may not see is that for a child navigating chronic pain and emotional strain, predictability is not punishment; it is grounding. Consistency is not control; it is safety. Structure is not a lack of compassion; it is one of its most reliable forms.
Chronic pain is real. It deserves seriousness and care. At the same time, I believe deeply that pain does not have to define every day or every possibility of a young person’s life. I am trying, imperfectly but earnestly, to hold both truths at once: to take suffering seriously while still leaving room for growth, responsibility, resilience, and joy.
I do not try to navigate this alone. I seek conversation and counsel from other fathers who are asking similar questions and carrying similar weight. Through communities like the Journeymen Foundation, founded by Jason Frishman, and MenLiving, guided by Todd Adams, I have found spaces where men speak honestly about fatherhood, failure, fear, and responsibility—not to posture or perform, but to learn.
In one conversation, Todd Adams recounted being introduced to a construction professional as someone who works not only in construction, but also in men’s mental health and men’s work. The man paused and said quietly, “Yeah. I know what the end of a thirty-eight caliber gun tastes like.” No explanation. No drama. Just recognition. That story has stayed with me. It captures why this work matters. Pain lives everywhere—including behind hard hats and job titles—and it often goes unnamed until someone makes space for it.
I have also been shaped by friendship and mentorship, by shared tables and long conversations. Rick Marsh is a mentor, a friend, a father, and a grandfather who shares community with me and leads with compassion. Rick is also the Executive Director of Curt’s Café in Evanston and Highland Park, Illinois—a café that creates pathways for young people to earn their GED, build life skills, and navigate the realities of housing insecurity and homelessness.
Through our conversations, often at Curt’s Café itself, Rick has offered me insight into the weight of being an African American father and grandfather, and into what it means to have once been an African American boy walking the streets of New York City. These are not experiences I can claim as my own. They are experiences I have been trusted to hear, to sit with, and to learn from.
For those who know me well, you know how much I value a good story—how much I believe understanding grows through listening. Rick and I laugh, too. About shared professional worlds. About time and industry. About him having sold plastics at DuPont for thirty years, and me having spent seventeen years building Chicago Green Insulation. Different paths. Overlapping truths. Mutual respect.
I also smile thinking about learning that Rick’s nickname in the NBA was Razor—not because of the length of his shot, but because of its sharpness. Not short. Sharp. It feels fitting.
More recently, I have been grateful for the friendship of Keith Oliver—a father to a two-year-old, a professional actor, and a cancer survivor. Keith and I share a commitment to presence, tenderness, and staying awake to the ways our own histories shape how we parent. We also share, quietly and without spectacle, the experience of having grown up with fathers whose intensity could feel like being cooked at four hundred degrees. It is a language we understand without needing to explain it.
These relationships do not provide answers or absolution. They provide perspective. They remind me that fatherhood, responsibility, and endurance are lived across generations, cultures, and seasons of life—and that learning how to carry that weight well is something we do in community, not alone.
I also seek professional help to do my own work. I engage with therapists to heal what needs healing in me. I participate openly and honestly in couples counseling and family counseling—not to deflect, minimize, or rewrite the past, but to face what is real, take responsibility where it is mine, and continue growing.
What may look from the outside like resistance or rigidity is, from the inside, an ongoing effort to stay regulated, thoughtful, and present in circumstances that are anything but simple. I am not fighting against my family. I am fighting for my children, for stability, and for a future that does not shrink around fear.
I believe love can look like structure.
I believe love includes consistency and regulation.
I believe love means showing up—even when misunderstood.
I believe my children have the capacity to live full and meaningful lives. My choices come from responsibility, hope, and care—not from anger or control—even when they are not always understood that way.
