By Te Aorangi Harrington (Te Iwi Morehu, Ngā Iwi o Te Tairāwhiti Whānui)
E ngā matua, ngā tāne, ngā kaitiaki o ngā uri whakatipu – tēnei au ka tuku mihi ki a koutou. Your quiet hands shape futures. Your presence, more than any speech lays the foundations our tamariki stand on.
As a father of four, a therapist, and someone who has sat with the full weight of fatherhood in my lap, I’ve come to realise something simple, yet profound: strength is not in volume, but in presence. The true measure of a father’s strength is not how loud his voice is, but how steady his aroha is.
The Quiet Fortress
Some fathers think they have to perform to be “real men” to be loud, to be right, to be strong in ways that dominate. But the most powerful fathers I’ve met are not the loudest in the room. They’re the ones who show up, over and over, without needing to be seen.
I think of one of my clients Matene, a solo dad raising two sons after a rough separation. When he first came to therapy, he said something I’ll never forget:
“I’m not the type to talk about feelings. I just want to be a good dad.”
Matene wasn’t flashy. He worked long hours in a job he didn’t love. Every spare moment went into raising his boys, homework, sport runs, kai on the table. But when he sat in my room, he felt like he wasn’t doing enough. “I’m not affectionate like their mum was. I just try to keep everything going.”
What Matene didn’t realise was that his daily, consistent actions were shaping his tamariki’s sense of safety. His boys didn’t need speeches they needed what he already gave: reliability, protection, patience. He started to realise that love isn’t always about hugs and words. Sometimes it’s about presence that doesn’t flinch even on the hardest days.
His turning point came when his youngest said, “Dad, I always feel safe when you’re here.” That’s the legacy our tamariki carry when we lead with presence, not performance.
Strength in Stillness: A Second Story
Another client I worked with, Wiremu, came from a long line of strong, stoic men. Raised to “tough it out,” emotions weren’t welcome growing up. When his wife passed suddenly, he was left to raise his teenage daughter alone. Grief overwhelmed him, but instead of expressing it, he buried it deep.
His daughter, however, started acting out, skipping school, lashing out at home. When he came to see me, his first words were, “I don’t know how to do this on my own.”
Over time, we worked on softening the walls he’d been taught to build. Not by removing them, but by opening a door. One session I said, “Wiremu, strength isn’t about not crying. It’s about being present with your grief so your daughter doesn’t have to carry it alone.”
Eventually, he sat down with her one night, held her hand and said, “I miss Mum too. I cry too.” That one moment of vulnerability shifted everything. His daughter began to settle. Not because life got easier, but because she didn’t feel alone in it anymore.
That, e hoa mā, is the strength we must reclaim as tāne, the strength to stay when emotions get heavy, to feel when we’d rather avoid, and to connect when silence feels safer.
The Legacy of Consistency
Fathers, we don’t need to be perfect. We don’t need to have all the answers. But what our tamariki do need is consistency. They need to know, “My dad will still be here – even when I mess up. Even when life is hard.”
This kind of consistent presence becomes a shelter, a pou in the storms of life. It tells our tamariki:
“You don’t have to earn my love. You already have it.”
It’s the steady hand on the shoulder, the warm eye contact after a mistake, the simple, “I’m here.” In a world that often tells our children they must hustle for love, fathers must be the place where aroha is unconditional.
Whakataukī: The Strength of the Silent Rock
There’s a whakataukī I often share with fathers in my therapy room:
“Ko te toka tū moana, e ngunguru nei te tai, e tū tonu ana.”Like the rock that stands in the sea, though the tides crash, it still stands.
That is the image of a true father. Unmoved by external chaos. Grounded in presence. Soft when needed. Steady always.
Strength Is Not Harshness
Some of us were raised with the belief that to be strong meant to be feared. That yelling, belittling, or threatening was how we “disciplined” tamariki.
But fear and respect are not the same thing. Fear closes hearts. Respect opens them.
When you lead with calmness, fairness, and aroha, you build a bridge. When you explode, you build a wall. We must ask ourselves – are we building bridges to our tamariki, or walls between us?
Practical Ways to Lead With Strength
Here are three everyday acts of true strength:
- Speak less, listen more.Ask your child, “What are you feeling right now?” without trying to fix it.
- Be emotionally honest.When you’re tired or stressed, name it. Show your children that real men feel things and still show up.
- Protect their sense of safety.Never use your size, voice, or silence as a weapon. Be a refuge, not another storm.
Final Thoughts: The Father You Choose to Be
E ngā Pāpā, the world may not celebrate your quiet service. But your whānau feels it. Your tamariki carry it.
You are the kaitieki of your home’s emotional climate. Be the safe place. Be the fortress that doesn’t shout, but shelters. Be the man whose legacy is not measured by words, but by the calm he created around him.
Because one day, your tamariki will describe you in simple terms to their own children, your mokopuna. And if they say:
“Dad was always there. I knew I was loved.”
Then you’ve already won.
Remember, e hoa mā:
“He aroha whakatō, he aroha ka puta mai.”If love is sown, then love you shall receive.
So plant daily, even when it’s quiet. Especially when it’s hard. Because the true measure of a father’s strength is not in the noise he makes, but in the peace he creates.
Mauria ora kia tātau katoa.
Author Bio: Te Aorangi Harrington is a relationship and men’s therapist, father of four, Rātana minister, and Police Chaplain. He blends clinical insight with Mātauranga Māori to support whānau wellbeing across Te Tairāwhiti.