Feeling Stuck After Doing the Work: Faith, Fatherhood, and Frustration

I had counselling this week—Friday, after school.

And if I’m being honest, I’m not in a great place right now.

I started school for HVAC about three weeks ago. The first week felt good. For the first time in a while, I felt like maybe I could actually do this. Like maybe I was stepping into something stable. Something real.

That same week, I got a co-op placement.

By the following Friday, I lost it.

I go into that more in another post, but the short version is this: I finally felt like I was moving forward—and then just like that, I wasn’t.

Around the same time, my #2 child called me while I was at co-op. She wanted money. I actually had a bit, so I sent her $10.

An hour later, she called again asking for more.

I don’t have much. So I said no.

And just like that, the conversation turned. Anger. Attitude. Distance.

She doesn’t call unless she needs something. And I hate even writing that, but it’s how it feels. Like I’m only valuable when I’m giving. Like being a father has somehow been reduced to what I can provide financially.

But that can’t be it.

There has to be more to being a father than handing out money and being compared to someone else’s “better” situation.

I haven’t seen my kids since before Christmas.

There’s a birthday gift for my #3 child still sitting in my room. Wrapped. Waiting. Just like me.

Waiting for a visit that keeps getting cancelled.

No explanation. No communication. Just… nothing.

And I’m left trying to figure out how I’m supposed to be a father from a distance that I didn’t choose.

In counselling this week, my therapist suggested I consider supervised visits.

That means more cost. More restrictions. More hoops.

And I’m sitting there thinking—how is this what it comes to? I’ve been doing the work. I am doing the work.

One of the first things I did when I got back on my feet was call for help. I reached out to counselling. I showed up. I stayed consistent. I went to a men’s group for four months and faced things from my past that I spent years trying to avoid.

I owned my failures.

I’ve been trying to rebuild my life the right way.

So why does it feel like none of it is changing anything?

Everything feels heavy right now.

Not just difficult—heavy.

Like no matter what I do, I’m still stuck in the same place, fighting the same battles, carrying the same weight.

I’ve reached out to people. People who care. A pastor. Friends. Leaders in my life.

And I know they mean well.

But right now, it feels like nobody actually understands what this is like.

To do the work.

To try to change.

And still feel like you’re getting nowhere.

Lately, I’ve been asking questions I don’t have answers for.

Why am I here?

Why does it feel like I keep getting pushed away no matter what I do?

Will this actually get better?

Because if I’m being honest… God feels quiet right now.

And I don’t mean that in a poetic way. I mean it in the real, uncomfortable, sit-in-it kind of way.

There’s a passage that’s been sitting with me this week:

“O Lord, how long will you forget me? Forever?
How long will you look the other way?
How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul,
with sorrow in my heart every day
How long will my enemy have the upper hand?”
Psalms 13:1-2 (NLT)

That passage doesn’t resolve anything neatly.

It doesn’t tie things up. It doesn’t pretend everything is okay.

It just tells the truth.

And right now, that’s where I am.

Tired. Frustrated. Carrying more than I know what to do with. Trying to move forward, but feeling like I’m not actually getting anywhere.

There’s a part of me that’s angry. Not just a little irritated—angry. Because I’ve been putting in the work. I’ve been trying to do things differently. I’ve been trying to rebuild something that was broken.

And it still feels like I’m paying for who I used to be, no matter how much I change.

But if I’m really honest—there’s another part of me that hasn’t quit.

Even writing this proves that.

Because giving up would be easier. Checking out would be easier. Numbing all of this would be easier.

But I’m still here.

Still showing up to counselling.
Still going to school.
Still trying to be a father, even from a distance.
Still asking questions, even when I don’t like the silence that follows.

So maybe that’s what this is right now.

Not a breakthrough. Not a victory story.

Just… endurance.

Just choosing not to walk away, even when everything in me wants to.

I don’t have answers yet. I don’t know how this situation with my kids is going to play out. I don’t know when things are going to feel different.

But I do know this—

I’m not the same man I used to be.

And even if nobody else sees that yet… I do.

So for now, that has to be enough.

Not because it feels good.

But because it’s real.

And right now, real is all I’ve got.