The Integrated Masculine

When I think of the word resilient, it makes me think of my workplace, and the people there. It reminds me that we show up every day, and some days we win—most days we don’t. But we keep showing up, we keep caring, and we keep putting 100% in.

This same mentality is how I would define resilience for my son. He’s five, navigating childhood, learning and growing every day—whether it’s sounding out phonetics to speak new words or riding his bike without training wheels.

“We keep showing up, we keep caring, and we keep putting 100% in.”

Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s not. What matters is that he keeps trying, no matter how hard it gets or how impossible a task may seem. As a parent, I know this is something I help shape from day one.

Resilience in the early years

When I reflect on my own childhood, resilience wasn’t fostered in me through guidance and opportunity. It was forged in the fire of chaos—an environment where substance abuse and signs of domestic violence were never far away.

A large portion of my childhood was spent with an activated parasympathetic nervous system, to say the least. If you were to ask me what got me through, I couldn’t truly say. I know I spent a lot of time outdoors—exploring, escaping, surviving.

Maybe that upbringing gave me the ability to compartmentalise pain and keep moving. I could say I wish things had been different, or that I had a “normal” family dynamic—but I wouldn’t be the man I am today if that had been the case.

“Maybe this upbringing instilled in me an incredible ability to compartmentalise my problems and keep moving forward.”

The one lesson I’m intentionally passing to my son that wasn’t modelled for me is that it’s okay to make mistakes. It’s how we learn. If a child is punished or shamed for getting it wrong, they grow up afraid to try, afraid to risk. And that’s where real growth happens.

Breaking cycles

Becoming a parent (and shortly after, a co-parent) forced a transformation in me—not just mentally, but emotionally. Those early years test you in ways you can’t imagine until you’re deep in them.

One moment I’ll never forget was dropping my son at daycare after his mum had moved him to a new centre, an hour’s drive from my home. My morning routine became a triangle—drive an hour north, drop him off, then back south-east to work.

Halfway into the drive one morning, he was suddenly hit with a stomach bug. He projectile vomited all over himself and the back seat, right in the middle of a five-lane causeway during peak traffic.

I pulled over into the emergency lane. He was crying in distress, the car filled with that unmistakable smell. In that moment, it felt like the world was crushing me. The thoughts of self-doubt swirled:

My child is suffering.

I’m failing as a parent.

Being late could put my job—and my ability to provide—at risk.

Tow trucks are circling me like vultures.

Then I breathed. Unbuckled. Grabbed the baby wipes. I cleaned him up, hugged him, and told him it was okay.

“I stopped. Took a deep breath. In that moment, the world feels like it is crushing me.”

And minutes later, we were back on our way. Because in these moments, we’re called to show up—not because our kids want us to, but because they need us to.

Parenting in practice

One of the most noticeable things I’ve learned in the last five years is just how disruptive changes in routine and environment can be for a child.

During the early years, my son’s mum had a string of bad luck with rentals while waiting for her house to be built. Every 6–12 months, the house she was in would be sold, forcing another move. With each move came a change in daycare—each one relocated closer to the new residence.

We didn’t realise the cost until later. My son struggled to build relationships with peers and carers when they kept changing. It impacted his emotional regulation, and it still does.

We were lucky to get support early from a child psychologist and later through his school. That gave us the tools to help him develop emotional strength: positive reinforcement, talking through big feelings, and leaning into his interests.

“This knowledge and practice we’re imparting on the next generation—at such an early age—is something my parents’ generation still don’t have.”

Sometimes, he even calls me out when I don’t regulate well—and those are magic moments. Moments where I see just how much he’s absorbing, how much more emotionally fluent this next generation can be.

Lessons in emotional regulation

Routine has become one of our anchors. My boy thrives on it. He knows exactly what to expect on school days, and he knows weekends are for adventures.

Routine makes kids feel safe. When they feel safe, they take risks. They explore. They create. That’s where growth happens.

One of our rituals is in the car before school drop-off—especially if it’s the transition between homes. We share three to five things we loved doing together. Sometimes it’s something recent, other times he recalls something from months ago. Those moments remind us that even when we’re apart, we’re always thinking of each other.

And I always remind him that when he’s missing his mum, she’s thinking of him too.

Resilience in a cultural & generational sense

It’s important to remember: parenting today isn’t what it was for us. Social media, screen time, global uncertainty—they weren’t even on the radar back then.

Overstimulation is real. One in three kids will develop an attention disorder today. And back in school, I remember kids with ADHD being misunderstood and unsupported.

Now we know more. We can do more. And I see teachers rising to meet this challenge with better tools and better understanding.

Discipline is another place where I’ve broken the cycle. I was raised in a home where smacks were the norm. And while the threat of a cheeky smack might still be there as a warning, I’ve opted instead for time-outs—one minute per year of age. Quiet time to reflect, rather than punishment.

“We are in an age where fatherhood has been redefined. Fathers are called to be more than providers.”

As a single dad, this is core to who I am. I show my son that I can be strong and soft, stable and emotionally available. When he misses his mum, I hold that for him.

This is a life I never imagined ten years ago—but it’s drawn out parts of me I never knew existed. I wouldn’t change a thing.

A sprinkle of co-parenting for the mix

From the beginning, my parenting journey has included co-parenting—and that adds layers to how resilience is practiced and taught.

Co-parenting (or parallel parenting) adds layers of complication. Resilient parenting becomes even harder when the person you share custody with doesn’t share your values, emotional intelligence, or willingness to collaborate.

Parallel parenting, where values and approaches can differ drastically between homes, can make protecting a child’s emotional world feel like walking a tightrope. Your parenting is one thing. Navigating what happens outside your home is another.

Lately, my son’s questions have become heavier. He’s asking why his mother and I don’t live together. I offer a gentle, age-appropriate explanation—that sometimes mums and dads don’t live together, but what matters most is that we both love him.

Then comes the heartbreak: “Mummy said…” followed by something laced with spite and completely inappropriate for a young child to be told.

“Every fibre of your being wants to respond emotionally… but to what end?”

Every part of me wanted to retaliate. But instead, I paused. I told him what he’d heard wasn’t true, and that no matter what, we both love him. That’s all he needs to carry.

What happens out of my control is just that—out of my control. But what I can control is how I show up, how I respond, and what kind of emotional safety I offer when he’s with me.

That’s resilience in co-parenting.

Building a resilient heart

Raising resilient kids isn’t about shielding them from discomfort—it’s about preparing them for it. It’s about giving them the tools to name their feelings, to sit with the hard stuff, to know they’re safe even when the world isn’t.

As a father, I’m not aiming for perfection. I’m aiming for presence. I’m aiming to model what it looks like to try again, to speak gently, to hold space when things fall apart, and to build routines that offer shelter from the chaos.

My son might not always remember the exact words I say, or the reasoning behind every decision I make. But he will remember that I showed up. That I listened. That I loved him fiercely, even when it was hard.

And that, I hope, is the foundation of a resilient heart.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this weeks entry of The Integrated Masculine as much as I enjoyed sharing it. If you have any thoughts or commentary, please share them with me!

-TIM