For years I thought I was doing the right thing: being “solid.” The guy who never cries, never complains, fixes the sink, drives in silence, doesn’t ask for help. I thought that’s what made me dependable. Unshakable. Useful. And in some ways, it did. But something started cracking — not in me, but around me. I realized my wife stopped asking me what I felt, only what I planned. My kids saw me like a tool, not a person. That hurt more than I expected.

It took me a long time to realize: being “the rock” meant I wasn’t showing them I had edges. Emotions. Fears. I remember the first time I cried in front of my son. It was quiet — not dramatic, not some movie scene. I had just had a rough week, and I sat next to him, put my hand on his shoulder, and let a few tears come. He didn’t look away. He said, “Me too.” That’s when I realized I hadn’t failed. I’d finally let him see I was human.

Being strong doesn’t mean being silent. It means listening when your daughter tells you she feels weird in her own skin. It means hugging your mom even when you’re mad at her. It means letting go of the idea that your job is to "carry" the whole family — and instead, walk beside them. Laugh with them. Cry with them, when needed.

I used to pride myself on never asking for help. Now I try to do the opposite — not because I’ve become weak, but because I want my family to know that sharing makes us stronger. I want them to see that even a man with calloused hands and a good poker face needs warmth, grace, and company. And that there’s power in letting someone else take the wheel now and then.

So no — I’m not the rock anymore. I’m something softer now. A little more weathered, maybe. But far more real. And funny enough, I think they trust me more because of it.