By Mike Baker
There’s a kind of love that doesn’t need applause. It shows up quietly, does the work, and holds steady even when no one’s watching. That’s the love I was raised with.
My dad lives to make other people happy. He never chased praise, but the way people lit up when he walked into a room told you everything. He built trust the way some people build furniture, piece by piece, with patience and intention. He didn’t just love us. He loved people. He served them. That love shaped me, even when I didn’t fully understand it.
Since my mom passed, I’ve seen something quieter in him. Like a part of his spark left with her. She was his rhythm and his fire. The one who made the ordinary feel bright. And while he still shows up for others in that steady way he always has, I know there’s a space in him that can’t be filled. Watching him carry that grief with grace has taught me just as much as anything else. Their love shaped our family. It still does. And we all hope he finds a little of that spark again.
Becoming a father changed everything. Nothing prepared me for how much I would feel, how much I would learn, and how much I would question myself. And I wouldn’t even be a dad without Kellie. She is my wife, my anchor, my best friend, and the reason I have this title in the first place. I’ve leaned on her through every high and every low. She’s the strongest person I know. And somehow, she still makes space for all of us to keep becoming who we are meant to be.
Our kids, Jake, Cameron, and Samantha, have taught me more about life than any book, class, or job ever could.
Jake is thoughtful to his core. He notices things most people miss. He overthinks, because he cares deeply. He’s shown me the power of slowing down and paying attention, especially when the world says to rush through everything.
Cam has that same depth, but with a different fire. He moves with urgency and heart. He feels everything and still chooses to dive in. He’s taught me that you don’t need to wait until you feel ready. You just have to care enough to begin.
Sammie brings a quiet strength that is hard to put into words. She leads with kindness. Her presence is calm and steady. She’s taught me that gentleness is its own kind of power.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I am still learning how to be a better dad.
I think a lot about my Uncle Chuck. He was the cool uncle. Jeep top off, music up, always ready for an adventure. But more than that, he was reliable. Constant. He showed up without being asked. That kind of presence stays with you long after the ride ends.
And then there’s my BGO brothers. We grew up together, and now we’re raising families of our own. I see them ache for their kids to be safe, to be known, to be okay. Behind the jokes and sarcasm, there is something fierce and quiet that lives in all of us. That deep hope that what we are doing is enough.
And my brother Jon, he’s one of the most amazing dads I’ve ever seen. The way he shows up for his kids, the way he leads with heart, it’s something I’ve always admired. His presence, his patience, his steady love, it’s the kind of fatherhood that sticks with you. Watching him parent has shaped me more than he probably knows.
The truth is, this role carries weight. Fatherhood comes with pressure. Expectations. The fear of messing it all up. There are nights when I lie awake wondering if I am failing. Some of those nights turn into music. Others into art. And some just live inside me until I find the courage to speak them.
I’ve failed in ways that still hurt. There are people who’ve seen me at my lowest. People who may read this and only see what I got wrong. People I led, or loved, or let down. I know what it feels like to be misjudged, to be written off, to have no space to explain. And if you’re someone who’s felt that from me, I’m not here to defend. I just want you to know I carry that.
There have been seasons in my life where the weight of assumptions, silence, or misunderstanding has been heavy. Moments when people formed opinions without asking questions. Times when things I built or cared about were dismissed like they never mattered. That kind of thing can break you if you let it. And it stays with you.
I think about those moments more than anyone knows. I think about the impact. I think about the loss. And all I can do now is try to live in a way that honors the lessons, even the painful ones. I can’t undo what’s been done. But I can keep showing up with more honesty, more care, and more heart.
I’m still here. Still trying to be better. To rebuild what can be rebuilt. To grow from the parts I didn’t handle well. To speak more truthfully. To live more fully into the man I say I want to be. Not everyone will see it. And that’s okay. I just want to keep showing up, even when it’s hard. I hope others do too.
You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to stay in it.
This month is Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month. And that matters. Because too many dads are carrying more than they can say. Some are lost. Some are just surviving. Some are here but completely buried. If you’re one of those men, please hear this. You’re not broken. You’re not weak for feeling tired or overwhelmed. You are strong for staying in it.
A friend once gave me a postcard with a quote from Robin Williams. It said, “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” That quote stays with me. Not just because of how his story ended, but because of how many people are walking through pain we never see. Kindness is not just for others. It’s for ourselves too.
This Father’s Day, I’m not offering advice. I’m offering truth.
If you’re trying, that counts. If you’re tired, you’re not alone. If you’ve messed up, own it, and keep going. Your presence matters more than your perfection ever will. Your love is the legacy that lasts.
To my dad, to Uncle Chuck, to Jake, Cam, Sammie, Kellie, Jon, the BGO crew, and every man still trying to love better and lead with heart—thank you.
You matter.
Keep going.
And if any part of this landed with you, if you’re a dad doing your best, if you’re healing something you don’t talk about, or if you just needed to hear that you’re not alone, I hope you’ll check out some of the other ways I’ve been working through it. I wrote a book called The Optimist’s Way that holds a lot of these stories, and I’ve been writing and releasing music that carries the same heart.
It’s not perfect, but it’s honest. And knowing someone is reading or listening, it helps more than you know.