Dad Guilt

On presence, performance, and the guilt I've yet to hear dads asked about

This is Dad//Citizen, a space where parenting and civicness come together. Where we try to make our communities a little bit better, every day.

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Before I found my new job, I was very likely going to be the parent who returned to work later than my spouse. As I searched for my next role, I was going to be the one providing round-the-clock childcare to our boys during the day, essentially becoming the stay-at-home parent until I landed a job that covered those childcare costs, hopefully with a little room to spare. And in New York City, that’s not a small sum.

For the past few months, as my wife and I would describe this potential work/home balance to family, friends, and colleagues, they would often ask her about the guilt she would feel when she returned to work. They would wonder how she was going to make it work, how she would be able to handle being a working mom. In many cases, they’d presume she would be unable to perform her mom duties as well as her work duties. Yet, in the weeks since I decided to and started going back to work, no one has asked me about any sense of guilt I might feel related to falling down on my dad duties. No one has questioned my decision to choose work over caregiving most days now.

In New York City, we didn’t really have a choice, but that silence said something to me.

I’ve heard a lot about mom guilt. It’s something I know my wife and many of my mom-friends experience, and it deserves attention. It’s the feeling that no matter what choice moms make, working or staying home, breastfeeding or formula, screen time or none, they’re somehow falling short.

What I hear talked about far less is dad guilt.

I’ve opted to call it that for lack of a better term, though it isn’t quite like the version moms experience. For dads like me, the guilt has two tracks running at the same time. The first is about presence: whether I’m there and able to contribute. The second is about quality: whether I’m doing it right, day in and day out.

The presence track sounds like this: any time I’m away from our boys, physically or mentally, is a lost opportunity. A missed rep. A moment where I could have been demonstrating something essential: that I am their dad, I can be just as present as mom, and I am here for them no matter what.

The performance track is quieter, but maybe more relentless. It’s the voice that wonders whether I handled that meltdown the right way, whether I was too harsh, whether I said something terrible that my kids will somehow understand and be left with a painful memory, or whether I’m supporting them as well as mom. Every misstep becomes a question: Did I go back to work too soon? Did I just mess him up? Is this the right example to set? Did I drop the ball when my wife needed me to step up?

Both tracks are running constantly; it’s just that sometimes one is louder than the other.

The presence guilt shows up in both small and big moments. Running an errand alone and wondering what milestone I might miss in the twenty minutes I’m gone. Answering an email while one of the boys stirs nearby. Deciding on a new career path that could take me away from them for longer than I want.

The performance guilt shows up in the aftermath of ordinary parenting. Did I let them cry too long? Did I not support their heads enough when I carried them? Was I patient enough, engaged enough, consistent enough?

The guilt doesn’t wait for evidence either.

It’s not that I think their needs won’t be met without me. My wife is an incredible mother. Our boys are safe, loved, and cared for. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, though, there’s this persistent hum on both frequencies: You should be there. And when you are there, you should be better.

Part of this, I think, is somewhat historical and inherently sociological. For generations, fatherhood was defined by absence and stoicism. Men were providers first and parents second, if they were expected to parent at all. Presence was optional, and the quality of that presence was barely a consideration. Exhibiting restraint and a detached behavior towards family was respected (see: Ancient Rome, the Puritans, and the Industrial Revolution).

But many dads today, as well as their spouses, are trying to build a different model. We don’t want to be remembered as the guy who was always working late, always busy, always around but not really there. We want our kids’ earliest memories to include us, not as visitors, but as constants. And we want to be good at it. Not just present, but present in a way that matters.

And that desire comes with a cost.

Because holding yourself to two standards at once means there’s always a scorecard open somewhere. Were you there? Were you good at it? The honest answer, on most days, is mostly. And mostly turns out to be a hard thing to feel settled about.

There’s another performative edge to this, too, one that’s uncomfortable to admit. I’m aware that I’m demonstrating fatherhood not just to my kids, but to the world. To other parents. To older generations. To myself. There’s a quiet pressure to prove that I’m not the kind of dad who disappears, or the kind who’s there but blows it.

That pressure can be motivating, but it can also be exhausting.

Dad guilt isn’t always loud. It doesn’t announce itself the way mom guilt often does when a friend or relative essentially throws it in their face. For me, it’s often much subtler, quieter. Something that rarely exists outside of the six inches between my ears.

I don’t have a clean resolution here. I’m still in it. I’m still learning how to hold presence as a value without constantly twisting it into something to be ashamed of. I’m still working on separating a bad moment from a bad pattern. And I’m still figuring out how to model fatherhood that’s steady and loving and human, and how to forgive myself when it’s none of those things on a given Tuesday.

What I keep coming back to is this: the guilt exists because the standard matters. It’s not distortion, it’s investment. The question isn’t whether to care this much, but whether I can carry that care without letting it curdle into something that makes me a worse father, not a better one.

Naming dad guilt is a start. Not to center dads at the expense of moms, this isn’t a competition, but rather to acknowledge that modern fatherhood comes with its own complicated emotional weight. That the bar we’ve set for ourselves, in both showing up and doing it right and holding everything else together, is sometimes higher than any human can clear.

I hope my boys grow up knowing I was there for them. Not every second, not perfectly, but when it mattered. And I hope, over time, I learn that one hard night doesn’t define what kind of father I am.

Presence matters. But so does grace, for our kids, and for ourselves.

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