The Breakwater Man

I’m not a sailor.

Hello Friends,

The article for today is a bit different, I asked my husband if he would write a little something for my newsletter. I know I focus on women, on motherhood and womanhood, because obviously I am a woman, but I love talking about the home, and the family, and yet these things are not complete without a husband, without a father, and so I asked him to talk about something that was on his heart, this is what he gave me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, and if you want to follow his work, click here

I’m not a sailor.

Sure, I’ve been on the ocean and I don’t get seasick. I even know how to swim, but still, sailing is not for me. Maybe it’s the chaos of the sea, maybe it’s the thought of what’s lurking beneath the surface, or maybe I just don’t want to spend all day on a boat. I’m not exactly sure why, but I know that life isn’t for me. Some men are called to it. I’m simply not one of them, but still I know a few things about sailing.

One thing I know about is something called a breakwater.

A breakwater solves a very important problem for sailors. Imagine finally reaching port, only to find the ocean violent and unpredictable. Getting to the dock becomes dangerous. Even after arriving safely, your ship can still be thrown around by the force of the waves. Sailors need protection, a barrier between themselves and the power of the ocean. What they need is a breakwater.

Breakwaters are built from extremely durable materials like rock, concrete, or steel. Massive amounts of it are piled into the ocean until a structure rises above the surface and absorbs the force of the water. When it works, the harbor behind it becomes calm and safe.

And that is what it feels like to be a husband and father. I can’t speak for all men, but I know this is true for me: I am a breakwater. When my wife and I lost our child, she wept openly and collapsed beneath the grief. Me? I carried it. When hormones, stress, exhaustion, or fear overwhelm her and she just needs somewhere to place the chaos, I carry it. When my children are afraid, anxious, or heartbroken and come to me for comfort, I carry it. Even though a breakwater is essential to the safety of a harbor, nobody really notices it. It’s simply expected to do its job.

Sometimes I wish I truly were made of stone instead of only appearing to be, but the truth is that I have fears too, I have worries. Sometimes I want to fall apart just as badly as everyone else. Sometimes I want to rage, panic, or collapse beneath the pressure.

But I can’t.

There are far too many storms out there, and I am the breakwater.

My job is to absorb chaos and return stability. To stand between the people I love and the full force of the waves, but if I’m being honest, I don’t fully know what happens to all that pressure, I don’t know where men put it. There must be something in a man’s nature that allows him to carry the emotional weight of the people he loves without completely breaking apart himself. Something God placed within us.

I know what I do is necessary, but it’s also lonely.

There’s a cost to acting like stone. The same people you love can begin to believe you really are stone. Many men are deeply misunderstood because of this. We try to be strong for our families, but the very strength that protects them can also isolate us from them. It can make us difficult to read. Difficult to relate to. Difficult to comfort.

But men are not rocks. We feel deeply.

I think that’s why I’m writing this. I want my wife and children to understand me, and I want other wives and children to understand the men who love them.

To be a good man often means becoming a breakwater, but breakwaters are not emotionless. They endure the impact because they’re protecting something precious. What we do, we do out of love.

When we don’t tell you everything we feel, it’s often because we don’t want to add to your burden. When we stay quiet, we’re trying to absorb.

If you are the wife or child of a stoic, breakwater man, understand this: he cares more deeply than you probably realize. He wants your life to feel safe, calm, and steady, and if you are a man reading this, know that you are not the only one, what you do matters, even if it goes unnoticed, even if you feel misunderstood, even if nobody thanks you for it.

In a lot of ways to be a man is to be alone, so be the man standing resolutely in the darkest stormy nights, the stark yet quiet edge where the sea loses it violence, and where home begins.

Lighthouse and its keeper, by Jean Guichard

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