The Quiet Ones: A Mindful Father’s Day Reflection

I heard somewhere in one of my social media feeds recently, a stand-up comedian named Ali Siddiq, claiming that “Father’s Day is the worst holiday”, and that Father’s Day ranks 20th on the list of most celebrated holidays. Twentieth! That’s after Halloween, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day, etc.  I don’t know if that’s true and I’m sure that the popularity of Father’s Day differs from country to region to cultural impacts.  Still, it got me thinking about it. Now, if I try very, very hard, I could probably think of 19 other holidays if I had a long weekend, but honestly, I’m not offended. I’m fascinated.

Why is Father’s Day so quiet? Why do we mark it with a shrug, a new tie, a social media post drafted by someone else, and then go mow the lawn?

Here’s my theory, and it’s not scientific, just observational. If Mother’s Day is an opera, Father’s Day is a haiku. Women have the cultural permission to be celebrated loudly, and rightly so. But if you forget Mother’s Day, you will hear about it… for years. You might hear about it from women who aren’t even mothers yet. Even toddlers will throw a side-eye if you forget to buy something pink.

Fathers, on the other hand? We shrug, grill something if the weather holds up and we go back to work the next day. We don’t expect much, and when we do get a card or a coffee mug, we hold onto it like it’s sacred. Maybe we don’t ask for recognition because somewhere along the way, we were told that real men don’t need applause.

But this year feels different for me.

It’s my first Father’s Day without my father. His absence is a quiet soundpost in the background of everything now, sometimes gentle, sometimes deafening. And at the same time, it’s my second Father’s Day as a stepdad to a girl who makes me feel like the luckiest man on earth. She calls me “Daddy,” and sometimes when I hear her say it, I wonder if my own father hears it too, somewhere beyond sound. So no, this Father’s Day won’t be loud. But it will be felt in that way fathers often feel.

My father, was a “river to his people”; a phrase he loved, once spoken by Auda Abu Tayi in Lawrence of Arabia; one of the greatest moments in cinema history, and one I will never hear again without thinking of him. He passed away in December, peacefully, at the family Ranchito in California that he’d carved out as both a sanctuary and a stage; equal parts retirement dream and living art gallery.

He lived like a Renaissance Man quite literally. Scuba diver. Nature photographer. Environmental activist. Storyteller. Chef. Teacher. Businessman. Adventurer. His curiosity was contagious and surely that’s where I got mine from. He was the kind of man who left you feeling like you should be doing more because his actions inspired you to.  His photography, thousands of shots from thousands of dives and adventures all around the world were, for lack of a better word, beautiful, and every image felt like a prayer to the natural world.

But beneath all that brilliance was something even more profound: his unwavering devotion to family. That was his true north, to barrow the nautical phrasing he so often incorporated into his fatherly lectures. He showed up for everything; boy scouts, travel emergencies, my life’s detours, for the random late-night calls when I wasn’t sure what I was doing. He was steady in the moments that mattered, and in the ones that didn’t seem to, until later. He wanted to be there, and that wanting, that open enthusiasm for being a father, felt rare and radical, even if he never called it that.

In The Will to Change, bell hooks writes that men are often taught to confuse love with duty, and to suppress tenderness in favor of strength. My dad never bought into that binary. He was both strong and tender. He hugged hard, gave compliments (and sometimes criticisms) freely, and never seemed ashamed of sentiment. Now that he’s gone, I find myself walking with his voice in my head modeling that rhythm. When I look at the ocean from here in Da Nang, literally on the other side of the world, I still remember how he knew the name of fish he saw; always teaching me. Even when I hold my camera just a little steadier to frame a moment, I realize, I’m still learning from him.

The lessons he left me were how to be a man and how to be fully present. The presence is still with me, especially now as I try to give it away to someone else.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a stepdad. It wasn’t a goal I had written down because truthfully, nobody ever says to themselves, “someday I hope to inherit a little girl’s trust.” But then one day I met a woman who changed my life and along with her, a little girl who would end up changing me. Eventually, I grew into the role, and she eventually started calling me Daddy. That word wrecked me the first time I heard it while at a buffet dinner near the ocean. Not because it was sudden or dramatic, but because it felt earned. It was the result of a hundred ordinary moments like walks to school, breakfast conversations, shared silliness, and quiet hugs after tough days. The things no one claps for, but that somehow rearrange your soul.

I’ve learned that fathering has very little to do with performance. It’s choosing to be present even when you’re tired or behind on your own list of unfinished things. It’s a recent lesson, but now one I definitely see my own father was trying to teach me.

There’s a lot of talk about motherhood and how it’s often performative with cards, flowers, brunches with mimosas and matching outfits. We turn the love into a spectacle, and you have to admit, that’s part of the fun of it. And maybe it’s also part of the cultural imbalance: motherhood has been so underappreciated for so long that we’ve overcorrected with parades of pink and Pinterest. But fatherhood remains quiet. It’s less a celebration and more of a silhouette.

No one's handing out trophies for reminding little ones to brush their teeth or quietly fixing the thing that broke again. There’s no brunch for wiping tears at bedtime or figuring out how to explain grief, or courage, or the difference between being nice and being kind. Fatherhood, much like motherhood, is more of a daily practice rather than a holiday. And in this practice, I’ve realized I’m not trying to be anyone’s replacement or hero. I’m just trying to be the one who makes her feel safe enough to be exactly who she is, no matter what. And when she slips her hand into mine without saying a word, I feel like I’m doing something right.

There’s a certain kind of silence that men learn early; the silence of engagement, not disengagement, of quiet carrying and shouldering things without complaint. We don’t need thank you cards, ballons, or bacon and egg breakfasts because we’ve been told in thousands of implicit ways that real men don’t need recognition.  We just need to show up and be there.  That’s the job. And most of us do it, without ever asking for applause.

In the sociology of gender roles, researchers like Michael Kimmel and Raewyn Connell have long argued that men are often raised with a kind of emotional stoicism. We’re conditioned to be strong and dependable, and to expect very little in return. Gratitude becomes internalized, almost mistrusted when spoken aloud. You’ll hear a dad say, “I don’t need anything for Father’s Day,” and more often than not, he means it.

But don’t mistake that humility for absence. There’s an invisible work behind the scenes that never gets the spotlight because it doesn’t demand one.

Many of the men doing this work will never be celebrated for it. They’ll never go viral and they’ll never win an award. They’ll show up on Father’s Day the way they showed up the day before; wrangling kids, paying bills, cleaning the kitchen, and managing the stress of the world outside while trying to leave none of it at the dinner table. It’s who they are, sitting at that dinner table knowing intrinsically that they’re the heroes of someone’s world and don’t need the social validation in order to feel it because they already do. In psychological terms, fulfillment for many men comes from being needed; anchoring.  Although accolades are always welcome, they’re never asked for or needed. 

So this Father’s Day, I want to recognize those men, like my father. The ones who show up and carry quietly and who build their legacy through consistency. They’re the ones who wake up early and go to bed late because they understand the weight of being counted on.  The ones who might miss the occasional ceremony but who are always there for the practices and never need applause to stay consistent.  They show their love in simple ways with open car doors, warm bowls of soup, fixed faucets, and stead hands. 

This weekend marks my second Father’s Day as a stepdad and my first without my own dad in this world. The math of that is strange. Something added, something lost. But in between, I’ve found something worth honoring: presence.

My dad didn’t teach mindfulness in the formal sense, but after long study of the subject I have realized that he lived it every day. He paid attention to the sounds of nature and also the tide charts and to my report cards. He saw the world through a camera lens that made even the ordinary look sacred. He showed up, and modeled the kind of man I want to be.

So if you’re a dad, or you had one, or you are loving one, or remembering one, take a breath this weekend and say it out loud even if it feels awkward, even if he just shrugs and says, “Thanks, kid.” Because the truth is, Father’s Day may be ranked #20 in the world (somewhere between Arbor Day and National Donut Day, depending on who you ask). But for someone out there, maybe a daughter, maybe a son, maybe a stepchild still figuring it out, you’re ranked #1. And that’s enough.

To the fathers who show up without needing a spotlight: we see you. We love you. Happy Father’s Day.

Author Bio:

Paul Allen Benavides is a university lecturer in business, media & communications, corporate trainer, author, and public speaker specializing in mindful leadership and human-centered development. He is the voice behind Walkabout Elevations, a reflective platform blending storytelling, scholarship, and soul to explore what it means to lead with presence. His broader creative journey lives through Walkabout Rojo, a long-running companion project rooted in global wanderings and personal transformation.