I Inherited an Entirely Different Way of Seeing Myself and the World

Hey Rebel,

Sit with me for a bit as we explore The Black Fatherhood Story We Don’t Often Talk About.

I inherited an entirely different way of seeing myself in the world because my father was present, intentional, and invested.

The older I get, the more I understand that my father did not simply raise me.

He shaped the way I saw myself.

The way I moved through the world.

What I believed I deserved.

What I believed was possible.

My work ethic comes from him.

My standards come from him.

The way I approach motherhood comes from him.

The way I approach money comes from him.

The way I approach ambition comes from him.

That kind of inheritance is difficult to explain.

When people talk about inheritance, they usually refer to money, property, assets, insurance policies, or other tangible items that can be deposited, transferred, sold, or divided.

And yes, my father left me some of those things, too.

But the greatest inheritance he left behind lives inside of me.

Confidence.

Discipline.

Standards.

Expectation.

Possibility.

A belief that my life was meant to be built with intention.

My father gave me that.

My father was a Black man from rural southern Arkansas.

He was educated.

He was a school teacher.

An art teacher.

Later in life, he became a chemical technician.

He worked hard.

He provided.

He was respected.

He had a plan.

He loved my mother.

Every day, he told her he loved her.

That matters to me.

Because society has done a remarkable job of flattening Black fatherhood into a single stereotype.

Absent.

Irresponsible.

Uneducated.

Uncommitted.

Uninvolved.

Deadbeat.

That was not my experience.

And it was not the experience of many of the people I grew up with.

Where I’m from, I saw Black fathers who worked.

Black fathers who loved their families and sacrificed.

Black fathers who were respected in their communities.

Black fathers who were not perfect, but present.

And presence matters.

Not “I know who my daddy is” presence.

I mean the kind of presence that pays attention.

The kind that teaches, corrects, provides, prepares, and stays.

As much as this story is about my father, it is also about my mother.

My father treated my mother like an equal.

He respected her.

He valued her.

He loved her openly.

And my mother spoke life into me when I doubted myself.

Together, they taught me what partnership looked like.

They taught me what sacrifice looked like.

They taught me what commitment looked like.

They taught me what it means to work as a unit.

I may be an unmarried single mother today, but I understand marriage.

I understand healthy relationships.

I understand teamwork.

Because I watched it.

I lived inside of it.

My parents gave me an example long before I had language for what I was witnessing.

There is a conversation we do not have enough of, especially among Black women.

We spend a lot of time talking about surviving fathers who were absent.

We talk about abandonment.

We talk about broken promises.

We talk about fathers who were alive but unavailable.

We talk about men who created children and then created entire lives outside of them.

Those stories matter.

They are real.

But they are not the only stories.

What happens when your father was there?

What happens when your father planned?

What happens when your father prepared you?

What happens when your father cared about your future before you knew how to care about it yourself?

What happens when your father teaches you to expect more from life?

That experience deserves language, too.

I grew up middle-class in rural southern Arkansas.

We were not wealthy.

But I never wanted for anything.

The lights stayed on.

The bills got paid.

The house was clean.

There was food.

There was structure.

There was stability.

There was expectation.

I didn’t know what the projects were.

I didn’t know what food stamps were.

I didn’t understand certain kinds of struggle until I became older and started interacting with people whose realities were very different from mine.

As a child, I thought my life was normal.

As an adult, I realize it was a foundation.

And sometimes that foundation can feel isolating.

Because people do not always know how to receive certain truths.

When I say I graduated without college debt, people hear privilege before they hear planning.

When I say my father bought me a brand new Malibu at sixteen, people hear bragging before they hear provision.

When I say my father talked to me about budgeting, goals, education, and vision at a young age, people hear superiority before they hear gratitude.

But I am not bragging.

I am naming the inheritance.

I am naming what it means to be raised by people who prepared for you.

I am naming what it means to come from a home where your existence was intentional.

I am naming what it means to be given a head start because somebody loved you enough to think ahead.

When a child is raised with stability, they do not simply receive comfort.

They receive identity.

They learn that they are worth preparing for.

They learn that their future matters.

They learn that adults are supposed to think beyond survival.

They learn that love is not simply affection.

Love is structure.

Love is planning.

Love is sacrifice.

Love is making sure your child has options.

That is what my parents gave me.

They taught me to think.

They taught me to plan.

They taught me to expect more from myself.

They taught me that education mattered.

They taught me that money needed direction.

They taught me that goals were not fantasies.

They taught me that vision mattered.

They taught me that life was not something to stumble through.

It was something to build.

The greatest thing my father gave me was not a car.

It was not tuition.

It was not material comfort.

It was an expectation.

He expected me to do well.

He expected me to think for myself.

He expected me to be educated.

He expected me to know how to manage money.

He expected me to have standards.

He expected me to build something.

He expected me to move through the world like I had a right to be here.

That expectation became part of my internal operating system.

It became the voice that says, “You can figure this out.”

It became the reason I do not easily accept defeat.

It became the reason I am intentional with my own children.

It became the reason I refuse to let single motherhood become an excuse for giving my children less than what I know they deserve.

My father prepared me.

Now I feel responsible for preparing them.

This summer marks fifteen years since my father died.

Lately, he has been showing up in my dreams.

And there are still moments when I want to pick up the phone and hear his voice.

I want to hear him say, “Hey there, Nicole.”

I want to ask him questions.

I want him to see my children.

I want him to witness the woman I became.

I often wonder if he would be proud of me.

Deep down, I know he would.

I want him to know that what he planted in me is still growing.

The grief is real.

Grief does not ask permission.

It does not follow a timeline.

It does not care how many years have passed.

Some days you are fine.

Other days you hear a phrase, smell a familiar scent, see an old photograph, or wake up from a dream and find yourself unglued all over again.

But this year I realized something.

I am not only grieving his absence.

I am studying his impact.

My father gave us so much.

And he worked himself hard.

Too hard.

He made sure we were taken care of.

He provided.

He planned.

He protected.

He carried responsibility seriously.

But I do not believe he got to enjoy life as much as he deserved.

Now that I am a parent, I understand the pressure.

I understand wanting to keep the lights on.

Keep the bills paid.

Keep the future secure.

Keep everybody protected.

I understand the weight of being the person with the plan.

But I also understand something else.

I do not want to only provide.

I want to live.

I want my children to have stability.

But I also want them to have memories.

I want them to have an opportunity.

But I also want them to see me joyful.

That may be the most complicated lesson my father left behind.

His life taught me the power of provision.

His death taught me the importance of presence.

This is my tribute to the fathers who are there.

The fathers who show up.

The fathers who work.

The fathers who love their wives.

The fathers who protect their families.

The fathers who teach their children.

The fathers who quietly carry responsibility without expecting applause.

The fathers who are creating confidence, safety, standards, and possibilities.

Those men exist.

My father was one of them.

And I am tired of acting like those stories are too rare, too complicated, or too uncomfortable to tell.

Black fatherhood is not a monolith.

Black families are not a monolith.

Black daughters are not carrying the same story.

Some of us are grieving fathers who loved us extraordinarily well.

Fifteen years later, I still miss my father.

I miss his voice.

I miss his presence.

I miss the life we had before he departed.

But I also know this.

He did not leave me empty.

He left me with a framework.

He left me with discipline.

He left me with a belief.

He left me with standards.

He left me with possibility.

He left me with the understanding that love is not simply what you say.

Love is what you build.

Love is what you prepare.

Love is what you protect.

Love is what you make possible for the people coming after you.

I inherited an entirely different way of seeing myself in the world because my father was present, intentional, and invested.

That is a gift.

That is a responsibility.

That is a legacy.

I am one of the seeds he planted.

And I am still growing.

Want to stay connected?

-Wendy Nicole Anderson

www.wendynicoleanderson.com