By 
Growing up, my father was the definition of stoic.
He’d wake up at 5:30 every morning, pull on his work boots, and head out to his job at the factory. Six days a week, without fail. When something broke around the house, he’d disappear into the garage and emerge hours later with it fixed, grease under his fingernails and a satisfied nod. That was his love language.
He never said “I love you.” Never asked how I was feeling. Never shared his own struggles or fears. At family dinners, while I would try to start conversations about everything from politics to philosophy, Dad would eat quietly, occasionally offering a practical observation before returning to his meal.
By the time I hit my twenties, I was determined to be everything he wasn’t. I wore my emotions on my sleeve. I talked about feelings constantly. I rejected anything that seemed remotely connected to his way of being. I thought I was enlightened, progressive, evolved.
What I didn’t realize was that in my rush to reject his emotional unavailability, I’d also thrown out the qualities that actually made him remarkable.
The rebellion years
My twenties were exhausting. I was so focused on not being my father that I became someone I barely recognized. While he worked with his hands, I insisted on working only with my mind. While he fixed things, I paid someone else to do it. While he showed up consistently, day after day, I job-hopped whenever things got tough.
I thought his silence meant weakness. I thought his routine meant he was stuck. I thought his way of showing love through action rather than words was outdated and insufficient.
In my quest to be emotionally available, I became emotionally chaotic. Every feeling needed to be expressed immediately. Every emotion deserved a three-hour conversation. I was so open that I had no boundaries, so vulnerable that I had no strength.
The irony? While trying to be nothing like him, I was just as disconnected from genuine emotion as he was. I was performing feelings rather than actually processing them.
What Buddhism taught me about silence
It wasn’t until I started studying Eastern philosophy in my late twenties that things began to shift. In my book “Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego“, I explore how Buddhist teachings helped me understand that there’s profound wisdom in certain types of silence.
My father’s emotional unavailability was problematic, sure. But his ability to be present without constantly analyzing and discussing? That was actually a strength. He didn’t need to narrate his entire inner world to be fully engaged with life.
Buddhism teaches us about right speech, which includes knowing when not to speak. My dad might not have known the Buddhist terminology, but he lived this principle. He didn’t fill the air with unnecessary words. When he did speak, it mattered.
There’s a difference between repressing emotions and simply not needing to verbalize every passing feeling. I’d confused the two for years.
The work ethic I tried to escape
Here’s something that took me even longer to admit: my father’s relentless work ethic wasn’t just about being a workaholic. It was about commitment, reliability, and providing stability for his family.
While I was bouncing between careers in my twenties, convinced that following your passion meant never sticking with anything difficult, he was showing up. Every single day. Not because he loved every moment of his job, but because he’d made a commitment to his family.
I used to think this was selling out. Now I see it as a form of love I wasn’t mature enough to recognize.
The Buddhist concept of “right livelihood” isn’t just about finding work that aligns with your values. It’s also about bringing dignity and mindfulness to whatever work you do. My father might not have meditated, but he brought a craftsman’s attention to everything he touched.
When founding Hack Spirit, I finally understood what it meant to show up consistently, even on the days when inspiration was nowhere to be found. That’s when I realized I’d inherited more of his work ethic than I’d wanted to admit.
Actions as love language
Remember how I mentioned my dad fixed things? I spent years dismissing this as emotional avoidance. If he couldn’t say he loved us, at least he could fix our bikes, right?
But here’s what I missed: every repaired bicycle, every patched roof, every late night spent getting the car running again, was love made tangible. He couldn’t articulate his feelings, but he could spend his Saturday making sure my bike was safe to ride to school.
Was his emotional unavailability ideal? No. Would I have benefited from hearing him express his feelings? Absolutely. But in my rejection of his limitations, I’d also rejected the very real ways he did show care.
These days, when I help a friend move apartments or spend an afternoon teaching someone a skill I know, I recognize my father in these actions. The difference is that I can do both: show up in practical ways AND talk about feelings when needed.
Finding the balance
The real breakthrough came when I stopped seeing this as an either-or situation. I didn’t have to choose between being emotionally available OR practically reliable. I didn’t have to pick between discussing feelings OR showing love through action.
What I needed was to keep the best parts of what my father modeled while addressing what was missing. Yes, emotional availability matters. Being able to express and process feelings is crucial for healthy relationships. But so is showing up consistently, keeping your word, and demonstrating love through concrete action.
I think about those family dinners now, where I would debate endlessly while Dad sat quietly. At the time, I wished he would join in, share his thoughts, engage with my intellectual gymnastics. Now I wonder if maybe he understood something I didn’t: that not every thought needs to be voiced, not every opinion needs to be defended, and sometimes the most profound presence is a quiet one.
Final words
These days, at thirty-seven, I’ve made peace with the parts of my father I see in myself. I fix things around my house and feel satisfaction in the task. I show up to work even when I don’t feel like it. I’ve learned that love can be expressed in a thousand different ways, and words are just one of them.
The difference is that I’ve added what was missing. I can talk about feelings when it matters. I can be vulnerable with the people I care about. I can recognize and process emotions rather than bottling them up.
Looking back, I wish I’d spent less time in my twenties trying to be nothing like my father and more time figuring out which parts of him were worth keeping. The emotional unavailability needed to go, absolutely. But the steadiness, the reliability, the practical wisdom, the ability to show love through action? Those were gifts I nearly threw away.
Maybe that’s what growing up really means: learning to see your parents as complete humans, taking what serves you, leaving what doesn’t, and forgiving them for not being perfect. Because in the end, we’re all just doing our best with the tools we were given.