The Power of Presence: What I Hope My Kids Remember About Me
- John
- Mar 28
- 5 min read
We don’t get to choose what our kids remember.
We think we do. We plan the vacations, the birthday parties, the weekend activities. We show up for bedtime, help with homework, throw the football, build the Legos. But memory is strange. It doesn’t ask for our input. It picks its own moments.
And if I’m honest, that terrifies me a little.
Because I’m building a life around my family. Around being present. Around giving them something solid. But I can’t control what sticks.
What I can control is who I am — and how I show up. And I’ve come to realize the version of me my kids will remember isn’t the perfect one.
It’s the one who was there.
What I Thought They’d Remember
I used to think they’d remember the big things:
The trips we took
The gifts we gave
The birthdays we nailed
The surprise moments where I pulled off something Instagram-worthy
And maybe they will.
But probably not in the way I think. Because those moments pass. They’re blurry. They blend in. And often, what I think is a “core memory” becomes just a picture in an album.
The things I remember most from my own childhood weren’t the big days. They were the small ones.
The way my dad looked when he was really listening
The time my mom sat with me while I failed at something and didn’t say, “I told you so”
The quiet safety of just being near them when nothing needed to be fixed
That’s what stays.
The Pressure to Be “The Good Parent”
Being a father — especially in a digital world — comes with an unspoken scoreboard. There’s pressure to perform:
To provide
To protect
To teach
To lead
To never mess up
But here’s what I’ve learned: The version of me my kids will remember isn’t the perfect one. It’s the honest one.
They’ll remember how I made them feel, not just what I did.
Did I make them feel seen?
Did I give them space to be themselves?
Did I apologize when I was wrong?
Did I tell them I loved them even on the hard days?
Did I empower them with my presence?
Those moments? They matter more than perfectly timed advice.
What My 9-Year-Old Notices - The Power of Presence
My son is 9. Smart. Sensitive. Observant. He watches everything. When I’m frustrated but don’t say anything, he feels it. When I’m not really paying attention, he notices. And when I pause what I’m doing, make eye contact, and just listen — he lights up.
He doesn’t need me to be perfect. He needs me to be present.
He remembers when I showed up to his Cub Scouts meeting, not what I said in the car after. He remembers when I asked him what he thought instead of telling him what to do.
The version of me he’ll remember is the one who trusted him. Who made space for his ideas. Who helped him understand that leadership isn’t control — it’s care.
What My 3-Year-Old Teaches Me
My daughter is 3. Fearless. Wild-hearted. She lives in the moment. With her, there is no multitasking.
If I’m on my phone, she knows. If I’m distracted, she calls me out.
She demands the whole me. And at first, that felt exhausting. But now, I see it as a gift.
Because she reminds me that presence isn’t partial. It’s full. It’s immersive. It’s messy. And it’s okay to look ridiculous while dancing to some song she made up on the spot.
The version of me she’ll remember is the one who said yes to the moment. Who got down on the floor. Who let go of the timeline and joined her world for a while.
My Wife Sees the Version They Can’t Yet
My wife sees the exhausted version. The one who doubts himself. The one who wants to be everything for everyone. She sees the effort. The emotional labor. The invisible load.
She reminds me that trying counts. That the version of me I’m worried about is already enough. She reminds me of the Power of Presence.
And that matters.
Because when I forget, she doesn’t. She helps me find my way back. And she models the same for our kids — grace, empathy, and what real partnership looks like.
The Things I Hope They’ll Remember
If I could choose, here’s what I hope sticks:
That I showed up, even when I was tired
That I made time for them, even when work was loud
That I told them how proud I was, often
That I wasn’t too busy to laugh
That I loved their mom out loud
That I was strong enough to say “I’m sorry”
That I held space for who they were becoming
I hope they remember the quiet mornings. The car rides with no agenda. The hugs that lasted a little longer than necessary. The feeling of safety that didn’t need words.
I hope they remember the real me.
What I’ve Had to Unlearn
To show up like that, I had to unlearn some things:
That work is the most important thing
That success means being in control
That emotions are distractions
That being busy is a badge of honor
I had to learn how to put the phone down. How to sit in silence without checking email. How to listen without solving.
It’s uncomfortable at first. But it’s freeing.
Because it opens up space — the kind of space where memories get made.
Legacy Isn’t Built in Grand Gestures
The older I get, the more I understand this:
Legacy isn’t built in big wins. It’s built in the small, consistent ways we show up.
It’s not:
The title you held
The money you made
The house you bought
It’s:
The way your kid talks about you when you’re not in the room
The way they treat people because of how you treated them
The stories they tell their own kids someday
That’s the version of me I’m trying to build.
Final Thoughts
I’m not perfect. I lose my patience. I get too caught up in work. I scroll when I should be listening. I say the wrong thing. I forget what matters sometimes.
But I come back.
Every day, I try again. I reset. I learn. I get on the floor. I show up.
Because I know I don’t get to pick what they remember.
But I do get to shape what they experience. And if I can give them a father who is present, honest, human, and loving — then whatever version they remember?
It’ll be the one that mattered most.
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