After a few years of marriage, my wife and I were blessed with a joy that changed our lives forever – the birth of our first son, Ibrahim.
That moment, when I first held him in my arms, was emotionally overwhelming. It wasn’t just love or awe; it was a rush of vulnerability and responsibility. Fatherhood, I would learn, isn’t just about sleepless nights and diaper changes. It is an emotional transformation, one that brings with it profound mental health implications that we rarely talk about.
Our second child, Rania, arrived three years later. Her birth illuminated even more of this inner landscape. Where Ibrahim made me a father, Rania deepened that identity. But with her arrival, I also became more conscious of the mental and emotional toll of juggling the roles of father, husband, and professional. The joy was real, but so was the quiet pressure building inside me.
Growing up, I had seen my own father, a composed and courageous army officer, display a quiet kind of tension on our family trips. At the time, I couldn’t name it. Now, as a father myself, I understand it intimately: it was the weight of worry, of responsibility, of love wrapped in constant vigilance. That low hum of anxiety is something I now recognise as part of the paternal experience.
In the early days of parenthood, everything changed. From preparing bottles to juggling office deadlines, my identity had to expand. But what didn’t expand was the space in our culture to acknowledge that men, too, struggle emotionally. I began to experience exhaustion that wasn’t just physical – it was mental. The pressure to be a dependable provider and an emotionally available parent felt like carrying two full-time roles without a break.
What surprised me most was the isolation. As fathers, we often don’t have the space to voice our emotional experiences. Societal expectations tell us to 'man up,' to support our wives, to stay strong but rarely to check in on our own mental wellbeing. Even conversations with friends can feel limited. Vulnerability is too often seen as weakness. But becoming a father cracked that silence for me.
There were moments I felt anxious, unsure and burnt out. Sleepless nights would bleed into demanding workdays, leaving me mentally depleted. The emotional weight of constantly being needed – at home and at work – started to manifest as irritability and self-doubt. Was I doing enough? Was I failing my family? Was this just me?
But it wasn’t just me. Research shows that paternal mental health challenges are common, especially in the first year of a child’s life. Fathers can experience anxiety, depression and emotional exhaustion. And yet, these issues go underreported and undertreated, largely due to stigma and lack of awareness.
What helped me survive that fog was faith and connection. Turning to Allah in moments of quiet despair gave me strength. But just as importantly, I started having honest conversations with my wife. We began naming the struggles instead of pushing through them in silence. I also found a few close friends who were willing to talk about the realities of fatherhood – not just the pride, but the pressure.
Fatherhood should not be a silent journey. Just as we advocate for maternal mental health, we must make space to support fathers emotionally. The mental health of fathers has a direct impact on children and families. When fathers are well, families are stronger.
I also had to unlearn old ideas about masculinity. I had grown up believing that being a good father meant being a tireless provider. But I’ve come to learn that real strength lies in emotional presence, in knowing when to ask for help and in showing vulnerability. Crying in frustration or admitting fatigue isn’t failure. It’s human.
Our culture often celebrates fathers for their stoicism, but we must evolve that narrative. We need more depictions of dads who are emotionally engaged, who take parental leave, who talk openly about the toll of caregiving. Paternity leave, for instance, isn’t just a family policy but a mental health intervention. The time I spent at home with my children helped me bond deeply and recalibrate emotionally. It reminded me that I was more than my job title.
As Ibrahim and Rania grew, the challenges evolved, but so did my awareness. I learned to schedule mental health breaks, to talk to a counsellor when I needed support, and to normalise emotional check-ins with my kids and my partner. These habits weren’t taught to me – I had to build them from scratch. And I want to pass them on.
To other fathers reading this: your mental health matters. You don’t have to be everything to everyone. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, to seek help, to say "I need a break” That’s not weakness – that’s wisdom.
To mothers and partners: check in with the dads in your life. Ask how they’re really feeling. And to employers: support parental mental health for both mothers and fathers. Offer flexible schedules, normalise paternal leave and create safe spaces for open dialogue.
If my children grow up remembering me not as a perfect father but as one who showed up emotionally, who admitted when he was struggling, and who loved them with honesty and courage – that will be my greatest legacy. To Ibrahim and Rania: You gave my life new meaning. And you taught me that strength is not the absence of struggle, but the willingness to walk through it with love.
And to other fathers: Speak up. Your mental health is not an afterthought. It’s the foundation of everything you give to your family. That’s where real strength begins.
The writer is a civil servant from the Pakistan Administrative Service, with extensive experience in urban and rural development. He iscurrently serving as project director for Rural Growth Centres for the government of Sindh.
