I think about death more than I used to.
Not in a morbid way, but in a motivational, gut-check kind of way.
Because every time I tuck my kids into bed, I wonder what they’ll remember about me when I’m no longer around. The Fatherhood Legacy.
I created a post about the Modern Father and how I think more ideas like this can foster these thoughts of your kids when you are gone. Have a read!
I don’t care if they say I was perfect.
I don’t need to be remembered as a hero.
But I do care deeply about the story they tell when I’m gone.
And if I’m honest, it’s shaping every choice I make now.
So this is what I hope they say about their dad when I’m gone.
“He was always there.”
I don’t want to be the dad they had to fight for time with.
I want them to remember me sitting beside them on the floor, even if my back hurt.
I want them to remember that I always showed up, at school concerts, dentist appointments, basketball games, and bedtime.
I stopped using “I’m busy” as an excuse.
Because I know being present is more powerful than being perfect.
The fatherhood legacy isn’t about doing everything, it’s about being there for the things that matter.
“He made us feel safe.”
I want them to remember my hugs.
Not just my advice, or my corrections—but the way it felt to be wrapped in my arms after a nightmare or a bad day.
I want them to say that my presence was calming, not controlling.
That they knew, no matter what went wrong, I was their anchor. The alternative is a scary thought for me. if I never made my kids feel safe in our home, I failed as a father.
I learned that being a good dad isn’t about power, it’s about peace.
So I stopped yelling.
I stopped reacting.
And I started leading with steadiness.
Because I know that in a world that’s chaotic and loud, a father’s calm presence is a child’s first form of security. This especially means a lot to me when they are older. If I treated them consistently this way, I’ll probably get a few more visits when they are grown.
“He listened.”
I don’t want to be remembered for the speeches I gave.
I want to be remembered for the way I paused, made eye contact, and really listened.
I want my kids to say, “He heard me, even when I couldn’t find the words.”
That’s what emotionally available fathers do.
I stopped interrupting.
I stopped giving answers before they finished their sentences.
I started listening not to fix, but to understand.
That changed everything.
Not just that but I put the phone down more often. Turned off the TV’s and really spent quality time with them.
“He apologized.”
I’m not afraid to admit it: I’ve messed up.
I’ve lost my patience. I’ve said things I regret.
But I’ve also looked my kids in the eye and said, “I’m sorry.”
And I hope that taught them something more valuable than perfection ever could.
I want them to say I was the kind of father who owned his mistakes.
Who didn’t let pride get in the way of connection.
Because nothing builds trust faster than vulnerability.
And nothing breaks the cycle like accountability.
I personally didn’t get this growing up. Yelling and overreacting was never met with a chance to make it up to me. I don’t yell near as much as I used to, but I’m not perfect. What I am getting better at is apologizing faster, to build the trust as fast as I can.
“He made us laugh.”
I hope they remember my goofiness.
The terrible dad jokes. The dance moves that made them cringe.
The silly voices during bedtime stories.
I hope they say, “He was fun, even when life wasn’t.”
I’ve learned that laughter is medicine.
And too many kids grow up thinking dads are only serious.
I want to be the reason they smile, even years after I’m gone.
So I stopped being too cool to be silly.
And I started making joy a daily habit.
My kids currently think I am hilarious. I intend to keep it that way!
“He believed in us.”
I want them to remember the look in my eyes when they tried something new.
Not fear. Not criticism. Just pure belief.
I want them to say I saw their potential before they could.
That I pushed them when they needed it, and reminded them they were enough when they doubted it.
That my love wasn’t just loud, it was anchored in belief.
I stopped criticizing every little thing.
I stopped projecting my fears onto their future.
Because I realized that being a mindful parent means building confidence, not control.
This has resulted in a messier house and a few extra bumps on knees. But failing often, and enjoying the process of failing, is one of the greatest gifts you can give your children.
“He loved Mom.”
I hope they say that our home felt full of love.
That I kissed their mom in the kitchen and held her hand on the couch.
That I respected her in front of them and behind closed doors.
I want them to say, “He showed us what love looks like.”
Because I know that how I treat their mother teaches them how to love and be loved.
I stopped taking her for granted.
I started showing my kids what commitment looks like.
What affection looks like.
What support sounds like.
My wife is my best friend, and my kids currently see that. We approach things as a united front, no taking sides, always being mindful when we are with the kids and making sure if we do have disagreements, that we show our children how to make up and grow stronger.
Because I’m not just raising children, I’m raising future partners.
“He taught us how to be kind.”
I don’t want them to say I was the strongest man they knew. I mean…I always want to be able to do more pushups than my kids….
But I also want them to say I was the kindest.
That I said please and thank you.
That I helped strangers.
That I raised my voice for those who couldn’t.
That I chose kindness even when it was inconvenient.
I stopped leading with power and started leading with compassion.
Because I know they’re watching how I treat the world.
“He showed us what it means to be a man.”
Not a man who hides emotion.
Not a man who dominates or demands.
But a man who feels.
A man who grows.
A man who shows up, over and over again, even when it’s hard.
I stopped pretending I had all the answers.
I started showing them that real strength looks like softness in the right moments.
I want them to say, “He redefined masculinity for us.”
Because modern fatherhood isn’t about toughness, it’s about truth.
This one can be hard. Dads need to stand tall and strong in some ways, but be more open to things as well.
“He never stopped trying.”
Above all, I want them to say I kept going.
That even when I failed or stumbled or got it wrong, I got back up.
I want them to know I was human.
But I was always willing to grow.
Always willing to fight for them, for our connection, for this family.
Because that’s what mindful parenting really is:
Not perfection. But presence.
Not answers. But effort.
Not legacy through success. But legacy through love.
Final Thoughts
If I do this right, my kids won’t remember me as the perfect father.
But they’ll remember that I showed up, day after day, imperfect but intentional.
They’ll remember that I was trying, always trying.
To be better.
To break cycles.
To build something new.
And maybe, just maybe, when I’m gone…
They’ll say,
“He was the dad we needed.”
“He made us feel safe, seen, and loved.”
“And we’ll carry him with us forever.”
What are your thoughts on this? Share a comment. Would love to hear some feedback from other fathers!
