I'm Not My Father

    Who am I? This question might sound simple, but how often do we truly ask it? For the longest time, I thought I knew—I was a son, a brother, a friend, a boyfriend, and a man. I had a set of labels to describe myself — labels that felt familiar and unquestionable. But as I grew older, I realized that none of these identities were truly my own. They were roles assigned to me by society, and I had unknowingly accepted them without question.

But here’s the thing, these labels are not neutral. They often come with baggage — expectations, responsibilities, and, most dangerously, a sense of power or entitlement over others. I was born into this society and it told me that I’m a man and what it meant to be a man. I learned that men are supposed to lead, be strong, and make decisions for others. I saw it in my household, where my father embodied the role of the head of the family. His word was final. He believes his duty is to decide “what's right and what’s wrong” for our family. But what I saw — and what I experienced — was a man enforcing his will, often at the expense of our feelings and dignity.

    My father assumed his role as the head of the family without ever questioning what that role meant. He believed he had the right to dictate what was best for everyone, and he often did so without considering how his actions affected us. I remember one particular incident that stayed with me. My father made a decision that impacted my mother deeply. She voiced her disagreement, trying to explain how it hurt her dignity and self-respect. But instead of listening, my father saw it as disobedience. To him, questioning his authority was unacceptable. I watched as he dismissed her feelings, reducing her voice to nothing more than a noise.

    For a long time, I believed that being a man meant being strong, decisive, and in control. I thought that’s just how things were. But at that moment, something shifted in me. I saw the danger of assumed roles — of accepting societal labels without questioning their impact. So I started questioning: Who am I if I reject these roles? What does it mean to be a man if I refuse to accept the version society has written for me?

    This journey of unlearning is what “I’m Not My Father” is all about. The word "father" here isn’t just about my dad—it’s about all the men who uphold and pass down patriarchal beliefs, often without even realizing it. It’s about the cycle of control, dominance, and entitlement that continues to shape generations of men. This isn’t a lecture on what’s right or wrong. It’s a personal exploration — a process of unlearning, reflecting, and embracing a more progressive way of thinking.

The Problem with Traditional Masculinity

Self-identity is rarely formed in isolation. More often than not, men find themselves defined in relation to others—father, husband, provider, protector. Society does not just assign these roles; it enforces them, often stripping men of the ability to reflect on their own individuality beyond these predefined identities. From a young age, boys are fed ideas of dominance, strength, and entitlement. They are taught that to be a man is to command respect, not earn it; to lead, not to listen; to control, not to coexist.

    This pursuit of power is not just about personal ambition—it is systemic. Boys grow up striving for the privileges that come with being a man in a patriarchal society, often without realizing that their gain comes at the cost of pushing others back. They are conditioned to see women as supporting characters in their stories rather than individuals with their own journeys. This imbalance is not accidental; it is carefully cultivated through generations of social conditioning, traditions, and cultural narratives that elevate men at the expense of others.

    My father was no exception. He grew up being pushed to fill the shoes society laid out for him. There was no space for questioning, no room for emotional depth. Vulnerability was a weakness, emotions were a liability, and dominance was the way. In the process, he became incapable of understanding emotions—both his own and those of others. And because he had to suppress so much of himself to fit the mold of "a real man," he failed to recognize that women, too, were being denied their own identities, choices, and freedoms. 

    To him, the discrimination women face is not an injustice—it is simply the way things are. Not because he is inherently cruel, but because he never had the chance to see an alternative. He, like many men before him, was conditioned to believe that inequality is natural, that power dynamics are inevitable, and that questioning them is unnecessary.

    But we are not obligated to follow the same path. We have the ability—and the responsibility—to break the cycle. To question, to reflect, and to choose a different way. 

Power vs. Love: The Patriarchal Trap

    From the moment a boy is born, society starts shaping him. He is told to be strong, to never cry, to lead rather than listen. He learns that respect is something to be demanded, not earned. That women exist as supporting characters in his story rather than as individuals with their own dreams.

    This conditioning runs deep. Men don’t just happen to be controlling or entitled—these traits are cultivated, encouraged, and rewarded. Power is placed in their hands, and they grow up believing it is theirs by right. My father was no exception. He was raised to be the head of the household, the one who makes the rules. But here’s the thing about control: it only works as long as the people around you are dependent on you. The moment they become independent, the power crumbles. And yet, he keeps choosing control over love. And I am tired of it.

    Like most fathers, my father is loving, self-sacrificing, and strong for the family. But there is always something wrong with the dynamics of his relationships. Everything in the family must align with his idea of what is right or wrong. He is self-centered, convinced that he is always right and knows best about everything. He brings love and affection to the table, but even that comes with conditions—he expects us to submit to him, and give him some form of power or control over us in return, rather than simply receiving love back.

    I have seen my mother slowly lose her voice over the years. At first, she stood up for herself, but with each fight, and each moment of resistance, the world around her told her to be silent. Her father told her. My father told her. Society told her. And eventually, she listened. Now, she has no choice but to depend on him—because she was never given the chance to explore her own dreams, her own life. That’s how patriarchy works. It keeps women trapped while men are given an escape.

    For the longest time, I didn’t understand this. When I was younger, I blamed my mother for holding onto her dignity and self-respect. I thought she had no say in anything and that our family could be peaceful if she just obeyed my father. I thought she was the problem for arguing, for trying to explain things to my father when we all knew he wouldn’t listen. I thought peace meant obedience. But I was wrong. Now, I realize that every time she was silenced, every time she was told to accept less, she was fighting for her dignity. And I hate that I once thought she was the problem.

The Cycle of Oppression

    Here I am trying to break away from my father’s path. But the problem is, there are still millions of sons out there who are not ready to step out of their fathers’ shadows. Instead, they eagerly wait to grab the position of power that patriarchy offers them. Because in a patriarchal family, it is not just the women who are oppressed. Everyone is oppressed under the wishes of the family head—just like my father’s wishes dictated our home. The only difference is that when a man feels oppressed in a patriarchal household, they have a way out. If they feel trapped, they can leave, find work, and build their own lives. After that, most of them do the same thing their fathers did—they take the seat of power in their own families. The cycle continues.

    Most men don’t reject patriarchy because it benefits them. They see it as an inheritance, a privilege that allows them to dictate the world around them. They don’t question it because questioning means losing power. But we are not obligated to follow the same path.

    Here some might say men are victims too—if they don’t earn enough, if they aren’t strong, even their own families sideline them. And to some extent, that is true. But here’s the real issue: why are men placed in this position in the first place?

    The dynamics of most men’s relationships, from what I’ve observed, follow a common pattern—they love, they provide, they sacrifice. But the problem is what they expect in return. In my own household, I’ve noticed this pattern clearly. The men give, but they don’t just expect love back. They expect control.

    This is where it all falls apart. When men tie their worth to power, they put themselves in a place where they are only valued as long as they are strong, as long as they earn, as long as they provide. And when they lose that? They lose everything.

    It’s not that men are victims of patriarchy. It’s that they are the ones keeping it alive. Because the truth is—no one likes giving up their autonomy. No one wants to be controlled. The only reason men get to exert power in their relationships is because they have material control. But when that control disappears, so does the illusion of respect and authority.

    Men don’t have to be victims of their own choices. Instead of seeking control, they can choose vulnerability. They can build relationships based on love, not power. They can create bonds where they give love and expect to receive it back—not where they fight for dominance and get lost in a power trip.

Choosing a Different Path

    I am 21 years old now. And I refuse to become my father. I am choosing to unlearn what society taught me about being a man. I am choosing to listen, to coexist, to love without needing control. Because being a man doesn’t have to mean dominance. It can mean respect. It can mean kindness. It can mean being human.

    But this journey is bigger than just me. There are millions of sons out there still standing in their fathers’ shadows, waiting to inherit the same power. The question is: will they take it, or will they break the cycle?

We don’t have to be our fathers. We can be better.