The Silence of Fathers: Shame, Strength, and the Cost of Silence

By David Marentette — RCMP Veteran (S/Sgt.) & Counsellor-in-Training

I recall one of my first nights as a newly trained police officer, barely twenty-one. I was dispatched to a call that became the site of a tragedy I will never forget. A person’s life was slipping away, and despite everything I tried, I could not save them. I remember the look in their family’s eyes. I remember the moment the paramedics pulled me back and said there was nothing more to do, that the person was gone.

In that moment, I felt shame. Shame that I had failed. Shame that I was not fast enough. Shame that others saw me tremble as I sat in my cruiser, unable to turn the key. I didn’t know that an adrenaline dump could leave the body shaking. I told myself real men didn’t struggle like this. I decided my shaking was proof I was a coward.

My supervisor met me at the scene and asked how I was doing. I put on a brave face, said I was “alright,” and went back to work. That was the only acceptable answer at the time. Police officers and other first responders are not given the privacy, or the luxury, of breaking down in the moment. During a crisis, the last thing anyone wants is for the people meant to help to fall apart.

My supervisor clapped me on the shoulder and said, “More calls are waiting.” He was proud of me in his own way. But as I drove to the next call, a domestic violence file, all I felt was shame. The thought kept looping in my mind: maybe I wasn’t cut out to wear the uniform after all.

Shame and Silence

“Shame is not just embarrassment. It is the painful belief that we are flawed and unworthy of belonging.” — Brené Brown (2013)

For many men, that belief hides behind silence, workaholism, or anger. We learn early that vulnerability equals weakness, so we armour up. Addis and Mahalik (2003) show how traditional masculinity discourages men from seeking help, and Tuckey and Scott (2014) found that even structured debriefings can be met with resistance among first responders. Those findings match what I saw on the ground.

After tragic calls, we would gather for critical incident debriefs meant to help us process what had happened. Yet male officers had to be pressured into attending, and even then, few spoke. Some cracked jokes. Others sat in silence, arms crossed. The unspoken message was simple: do not let anyone see you struggle.

As a volunteer firefighter, the culture was no different. We faced trauma head-on, but our emotions stayed hidden. Men could walk out of burning houses, but not into conversations about the fires inside them.

Silence does not protect us. It isolates us.

Empty firehouse locker room lit by a single window, symbolizing silence and emotional isolation in first responder life. — *In rooms like this, the weight of what isn’t said lingers longest.*

Women in first responder roles face the same trauma exposure but often cope differently. Research shows that, on average, women are more likely to use emotion-focused and social support coping strategies than men (Tamres et al., 2002). I used to envy that ease. After a tough call, I would see female colleagues debrief together, venting, crying, laughing, just being human. But even they were often pulled into the same male-dominated culture of silence. It wasn’t uncommon to see a female officer sitting alone, carrying a thousand-yard stare no one dared name.

I often wanted to join in, to say something, but the words never came. I felt embarrassed by what I saw as softness, as if it were a kind of anti-maleness I couldn’t define. So I did what many men in uniform do: I told myself I was fine, even as the silence around me thickened. These are trends, not rules, but they explain something I lived firsthand: silence can feel like control until it becomes a cage.

Father and son sitting apart in silence, each lost in thought, symbolizing emotional distance and unspoken pain — *He never needed me to be perfect; only present.*

Fatherhood Through the Lens of Shame

The silence didn’t stay at work. It followed me home.

When my son was young, I was already carrying PTSD. Avoidance and depression had taken root. I missed school events and simple family time, not because I didn’t care, but because shame kept me at a distance. The inner voice whispered: You’re not a good father. Better to withdraw than fail.

Shame kept me from showing up in ways my son needed. For years, I carried the weight of those missed moments. Fatherhood, though, has a way of offering second chances.

Today, I am still my son’s father, but I am also a foster dad and soon an adoptive father to my daughter, Nancy. That journey has reminded me that fatherhood is not about perfection; it is about presence. Love is something we choose daily, even when we are struggling. Parenting taught me that while shame says we are not enough, children remember that we showed up, imperfect, vulnerable, and consistent.

I sometimes think back to those early nights on an isolated northern reserve, holding a newborn in my arms with no family nearby, no mentors, and no one to call. The fear of not knowing what to do was overwhelming. True to the culture I had inherited, I stayed silent. Looking back now, I see how those silent moments shaped me, and why breaking that silence matters so much today.

Moving Forward

After years of silence, I finally sat across from a therapist and spoke the words I had buried under a lifetime of uniformed stoicism. Healing didn’t erase the past, but it taught me how to live beside it. I learned to breathe through tension instead of hiding from it. I started listening when my son spoke instead of planning what to fix.

I began meeting life through the eyes of an observer rather than a stoic. My wife said my eyes looked calmer. A friend told me I had started smiling with them. That small comment hit me like lightning. It reminded me of every time I had said I was fine when I wasn’t.

Therapy didn’t turn me into someone new. It helped me remember the man who had been trying to surface all along.

I once felt like I was standing at the base of a mountain with no map. A friend once told me that moral goodness is like a mountain. The summit is moral perfection. The base is our lowest selves. Every one of us stands somewhere on that slope, between grace and failure.

For a long time, I thought what mattered was how high I had climbed. Now I think the climb itself is where the meaning lives. None of us reaches the summit. Few of us get close. Most of us spend our lives trying to make small gains, slipping, falling, and getting back up.

Strength is not a finish line. It is the choice to take another step when silence tells you to stand still. If you have ever sat in your car after a long shift, hands gripping the wheel, replaying a moment you cannot undo, then you know the feeling. That quiet ache is not weakness. It is proof you still care.

Our silence is not only personal; it is institutional. It is written into training manuals, locker-room jokes, and the way we turn raw pain into “procedure.” Breaking that silence is more than courage. It is an act of rebellion against a system that taught us to survive by disappearing.

Real strength is found in the journey itself, in each imperfect step, and in the courage it takes to finally speak.

Mountain trail winding upward through fog and sunlight, symbolizing healing, perseverance, and the ongoing journey toward strength — *Strength is found here, on the path upward, not at the peak.*

Thank you for reading. If this essay resonated, follow The Resilient Frontline for more stories, reflections, and resources for service-lives and families. Your voice matters. We’re listening.

The Silence of Fathers: Shame, Strength, and Finding Our Voice

Shame and Silence

Fatherhood Through the Lens of Shame

Moving Forward

Further Reading and Sources of Information

Leave a Comment Cancel reply