What Fatherhood Exposed in Me

Hi, my name is JP. I’m glad you’re here.

I’m the youngest of four brothers, and I grew up on a farm in South Africa.

Fatherhood has always been a loud subject in my life — sometimes through defining events, and sometimes through quieter realizations that only made sense years later. When people who know my full story hear it all laid out, they often say, “I don’t know how you turned out so normal.”

I’m not sure what “normal” means.
But I do know this: it didn’t happen by accident.

This isn’t the full story.
But these are the moments that shaped why this project exists.

What I Inherited

My father had everything going for him at one point in his life.

He owned a successful farm. He had a wife. He had four sons. He was intelligent, capable, and deeply respected for his work. One of the things we admired most about him was his ability to build fences on the farm — a process he refined and improved over decades.

Unfortunately, he also built fences around his heart.

Later in life, he lived alone on that same farm. And there, after more than fifty years, he was murdered. He died isolated and lonely, in the very place he had built with his own hands.

No one dreams of growing old that way.
But some people drift there — slowly, quietly — without realizing it.

Sixteen

When I was sixteen, I was standing in the backyard, getting ready to leave for school. I was writing my final exam for the year that morning.

My father came outside to speak to me.

He told me that when he dropped me off at school, I wouldn’t be coming back home. He said he would make sure my belongings were sent to my mother. And that after that, he would not be seeing me again.

There would be no communication.

At that point, he already had no contact with my brothers. This boundary wasn’t emotional. It was structural. As solid as the fences he built on the farm.

That silence lasted ten years.

What Carried Me

I didn’t survive that season on my own.

My safety net was my mother, my extended family, and close friends — and, importantly, their families. What they gave me can’t be repaid. A simple thank you doesn’t come close.

Faith also played a central role in my life. It gave me language, structure, and a sense that my life was being held together even when I didn’t feel strong.

Still, I carried deep struggles into adulthood — questions of meaning, purpose, confidence, and identity.

I needed more than encouragement.

I needed fathering.

The Men Who Stepped In

At some point, blame stops being useful. I became responsible for my own life. But responsibility doesn’t erase the need for guidance.

I needed questions answered. I needed perspective. I needed men who had walked ahead.

I was eighteen when I met Craig in London, UK. He remains a faithful father figure and friend to this day. He didn’t try to replace my father. He simply showed up, consistently.

Later, I lived in a deeply faith-based community in Pretoria. There, I had access to many men I still consider great — not because they were impressive on paper, but because I could see the fruit of their lives. I watched how they raised their children. I watched how they treated their wives.

I spent countless hours with mentors like these — in coffee shops, living rooms, courses, and long conversations — trying to understand myself and make sense of life.

Mentorship didn’t fix me.
But it carried me.

Trying to Build What I’d Never Seen

I got married at twenty-two.

I was deeply involved in church life and committed to building a family environment I had never experienced myself. I wanted it badly. I worked at it earnestly. But effort alone wasn’t enough.

My marriage was hard. Turmoil and chaos were common. There was love, yes. There were good moments, yes. But there was no breakthrough into a healthy relationship.

Eventually, we decided to have a child.

Our son was born three months early and fought for his life in NICU. He survived. He came home. And then, when he was eighteen months old, he passed away in a freak accident.

The loss was devastating on its own. But it didn’t arrive alone.

None of our hospital bills were covered. Due to a failure in how our medical insurance activated, coverage only began one month after his birth — despite the policy having been set to start before his due date. The result was staggering - we faced an overwhelming financial burden.

We didn’t have it.

We sold the first house we had recently bought. And then something unexpected happened.

People stepped in.

Friends. Family. Members of our church community. Individuals who gave quietly and generously. Much of that financial burden was carried by others.

It was one of the clearest experiences of community I’ve ever witnessed.

We stayed together after that loss. We tried to reorient ourselves. To make sense of life. To keep going. The support we received during that time was overwhelming. Humbling. I remain deeply grateful for it.

But underneath it all, something was still broken.

When My Life Didn’t Work

Eventually, I couldn’t avoid the truth anymore: my life didn’t work.

Not parts of it.
All of it.

Something had to give.

I quit the job I’d been at for eight years. I flew to the United States to consider my options. Two weeks in, I received an employment offer I couldn’t refuse. I returned to South Africa. I worked on my marriage for two more years. I slowly stepped away from church life. I started my own business.

And eventually, after a series of events, I made a final decision.

We packed a few suitcases and got on a plane. This time, we weren’t coming back.

We traveled across America — a childhood dream — and eventually found a way to immigrate to Canada. After about a year in the U.S., we entered Canada together to start a new life.

Apart.

Our fourteen-year marriage ended.

Road to New Beginnings

My new life began in the heart of winter.

I arrived in Montreal, Canada, and three months later, the city shut down. Covid. Everything paused. Plans evaporated.

The best option I had was simple: go west.

So I did.

I found myself in Saskatchewan, spending most of my days on a tractor, farming alongside my brother. It was a gift I didn’t know I needed. The work was physical and repetitive. The land was wide and quiet. Being connected to nature every day became the best remedy I had for processing separation, loss, and the question of what my life might become next.

Out there, under prairie skies…

By November 2020, the summer work on the farm was done. I packed up an old Ford Ranger I’d bought in Saskatchewan, loaded everything I owned into it, and drove 2,500 kilometers east to Toronto.

Just me.

No connections.

No work.

A practicing international student.

A new beginning.

Take Two

Fast forward to today.

Toronto is home. I have an amazing wife who is also my best friend — who would have thought that I could meet a spirited ‘cowgirl’ in the heart of a city. We have two beautiful boys. I have a good job as a Project Manager, and I’m currently on a fourteen-month parental leave. We have a fluffy white dog, friends, family, and a home that feels steady.

Life is different now.

My challenges are different too.

But one sentence from my twenties has stayed with me:

We can only blame our parents for so long. After that, it’s on us to make responsible choices.

I believe that deeply.

Why This Exists

Curious Dads exists because I don’t believe fathers need more advice.

I think we need better questions.
And we need access to men who’ve already walked ahead — not as gurus, but as fellow learners willing to speak honestly about what shaped them.

Fatherhood doesn’t start with techniques.
It starts with identity.

And identity is shaped — slowly, imperfectly — in relationship.

If you’re here, you’re welcome in the conversation.