The Power of Listening and Acknowledgement: A Reflection on My Father’s Influence
Human relationships are deeply complex, marke by a delicate interplay of speaking, listening, and the need for acknowledgment. These dynamics often shape us in ways we do not fully grasp until much later in life, when introspection forces us to untangle the threads of our earliest experiences. It is within these threads that I find the profound influence of my father—a man whose voice was thunderous, commanding, assertive, and often, unyielding. Yet, it was the absence of something softer—true listening—that left an indelible mark on my life.
Life’s beginnings often set the stage for patterns that echo throughout one’s existence. I was born into a working-class family, much like many others, where both parents bore the weight of relentless labor. My father held two jobs, one initiating at 2:30 in the morning, seven days a week, while the other aligned with a conventional 40-hour week. His days were consumed with duty, his nights demanding rest; and I, as an infant, was simply too loud for his fragile hours of peace.
Thus began a precedent—my cries placed me in a car in our attached garage, bundled in a blanket, an unspoken compromise to prioritize his need for sleep. I was not yet verbal, but I believe, even then, the seed was planted—the seed of silence.
My voice did not find me until I was four years old, a delay that prompted a series of medical tests to determine if there was something “wrong” with me. My sister, older and articulate, spoke on my behalf, crafting words I had not yet given myself permission to form. Perhaps my young mind had understood what I could not yet articulate—that my voice might never truly feel heard, valued, or acknowledged. Was it intuition, or merely subservience to the overwhelming energy of my father’s presence?
When my voice finally emerged, it did so with a vengeance. Words spilled from me like a dam breaking loose, untamed and persistent. My family often joked, “Once he started talking, he would never stop.” But my words, even when correct, often faced disbelief. “That didn’t happen,” they would say, or, “You’re just making that up.” And so, a chasm grew—a chasm between speaking one’s truth and receiving validation for it.
My father was, and remains in my memory, a man of will and control. He knew how to command, how to mete out discipline, how to enforce his rules with swift certainty. But he struggled to truly acknowledge the voices of others, especially mine. Listening, in its truest form—to hear not just words but the soul behind them—was an art he never mastered. I realized, with time, that I wasn’t alone in experiencing this.
It was a cultural legacy, one passed from man to man in the environments where I lived and worked. Throughout my career, men echoed variations of my father’s limitations. They wielded authority and control with precision but resisted the vulnerability required to listen, acknowledge, and validate. This pattern wasn’t personal; it was systemic. Yet, its effects were deeply personal in their emotional resonance.
One’s early years are marked by the echoes of parental influence. My father’s inability to acknowledge the significance of my words bled into the way I viewed myself. What value, after all, does a voice hold if it finds no ear willing to hear it? This question haunted me, shaping my interactions with others and my perception of my own worth.
Yet, life is nothing if not paradoxical. While my father’s silence dampened my voice, it also strengthened my understanding of its importance. My willingness to speak—to advocate not just for myself but for others—was born as much from his shortcomings as it was from my own determination to rise above them.
Listening is an act of generosity, a space where acknowledgment and dignity coexist. It is not passive; it is active, brimming with intention and mindfulness. When done well, listening validates the existence and humanity of another. It whispers, “You matter. Your words are worthy.” For those who have known the sting of dismissal, authentic listening becomes an even more vital part of the healing process.
My father, despite his shortcomings, was not entirely at fault. He was a man molded by his own environment, his culture, his life circumstances. His loudness, his longing for control—they were survival mechanisms, honed through years of labor and sacrifice. Perhaps he never saw a model for what true listening could look like. And yet, the lessons I learned in observing his faults have become a guiding force in my own life.
The legacy of disconnection, of poor listening, is not insurmountable. It is a cycle that can be broken, not through blame but through intentional change. I have spent my life striving to do what my father struggled with—listening actively, without judgment, and with a willingness to acknowledge the voices around me.
This commitment has allowed me to create spaces where others feel heard, spaces I wish my younger self had known. And in doing so, I have reclaimed the value of my own voice, not by shouting to be heard, but by proving through action that every voice matters.
The influence of my father has been profound. It taught me both the pain of being silenced and the power of reclaiming one’s voice. It compelled me to challenge societal patterns of listening and acknowledgment, to bridge the chasm between speaking and being heard. As a result of a healing process from the trauma created from this life experience, I began writing in earnest late in 2016, resulting in several books, and nearly one thousand blog posts, in just eight years.
If there is any takeaway from this reflection, it is this—to listen is to heal. To acknowledge is to dignify. Every parent, every partner, every leader and co-worker has the power to shift the narrative, to move toward a culture where voices are more than just noise—they are honored pieces of the human experience.
And so, I say this to my father, wherever he may be now, and to the many others like him I have encountered along the way—thank you. For it is in your shadows that I have found my light.
Father, in whatever form Father may appear, be it God, society, family, or self,
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?
2007 Cruise to Caribbean Islands-my father Beryl to my right.
