On the heels of bread
I thought I grew up in an idyllic setting — the cliche childhood, playing outdoors in the bucolic countryside of Vermont. I remember home cooked meals, exploring the woods, and learning the values of my pragmatic and stoic community.
I genuinely experienced all of these things. But I didn’t realize what the dark underside of this culture would lead to; for me, for my children, my wife, and my well-being.
This is the story of how I lost myself and found myself again. A story of masculinity. And a story of growth. I intend it to be less of a memoir or vanity project and more of an exercise in vulnerability.
I grew up in the kind of family that saved plastic bread bags, packed a sandwich for pretty much any trip. We rarely went skiing because it was expensive. I learned to ski through the school program that was undoubtedly sponsored by the ski resorts in the same way cigarette companies used to show ads during Saturday morning cartoons. Get them hooked early and they’ll be a customer for life.
I’m still putting pieces together, making connections between the thousands of parenting experiences that formed a substantial part of my value system. We often ask each other what you do for work, or what your hobbies are. But how often do we ask what it is that you value? These values are often unspoken and subconscious — unless one deliberately sets out to explore them. What I came to realize 30 years later is that we didn’t ski much because it was expensive, yes, but also because quality time was not a valued experience in my family.
Productivity, humility, pragmatism, frugality, achievement, and even suffering… these were the values I was shown and thus they were the values I adopted. Work was valued. So my family worked so hard that weekends became a time to recover from long hours. Or, they became time to complete projects. They were not for quality time together. None of this was every explicitly communicated.
Never once did one of my parents say “Cyrus, you need to be humble”. But never once did my parents take pride in something they had accomplished. More accurately, they may have felt proud but to show that was boastful and arrogant. Not once did my dad say “it’s best to use up every piece of bread in the loaf, so as not to waste”. But he also never hesitated to make a sandwich with the two heels of the bread loaf because that’s what was left behind when me and my brother made ours. This might just be me, but I despised the dry ends of the loaf of bread, much preferring the fluffy center pieces.
As we packed our lunch one day to go skiing (we would never, ever buy food at the overpriced resort snack bar) I remember watching my dad spreading peanut butter on heels of bread that were left in the bag, even though we had a fresh loaf laying on the counter. I don’t know why I remember that moment. But I know why I still think about it to this day.
My dad worked hard. Too hard at times. And he didn’t like to waste money that he had worked hard for. So he used the heels of the bread. Growing up, becoming a “man”, having children, I made meaning out of that and hundreds of other memories. Thinking that a good father sacrifices for his family. Eating the less desirable slices of bread so that his kids can have the better ones.
Only later did I make meaning from those memories. I awakened to the harsh effect they had on the choices I would make as an adult.
It turns out, repeatedly sacrificing your needs is not only bad for you, it’s bad for the people around you.
For years I believed that being a good father, a good husband, and a good person meant you sacrificed quietly — putting others’ needs in front of your own. I was wrong.
There are people reading this who will argue with me. Especially those who have built their identity around being a parent. I was that person. But what took me years to learn is that I emphasized that part of my identity because nurturing the other parts felt like a betrayal of the harmful values I internalized.
I felt like I couldn’t have interests beyond being a parent. Yes, men feel that way too. The men I knew at this time in my life had, at best, hobbies. They played golf when they could “sneak away” or were really into fantasy football. They could do one before the family wakes up on a weekend and the other after they went to sleep. I don’t fault these men for clinging to something. I gave up nearly everything but work in order to be what I thought was a good man and father. I lost myself in my responsibilities and let go of who I was before. I chose the dutiful option again and again.
I can’t go after that exciting new job because it would be less secure for my family. I can’t buy the car I want because it’s not practical. These were the voices in my head that were the loudest. And they hurt me every single day.
I spent years unable to reconcile my needs with those of my children, wife, family, work, etc. I truly believed that it was my job carry the weight of the world without complaint. That that would make me a good father and husband. Again, I was wrong.
I spent fourteen years in a relationship with someone who emotionally abused me, manipulated me, and gaslit me into believing that our relationship was a sad empty shell because I simply didn’t work hard enough. That perhaps the next promotion, renovation, or family trip would somehow fix everything. Our fire went out almost immediately after it was lit. I was blamed for the fire going out by the person pissing on it.
I am a man. I was emotionally abused. I was very effectively gaslit for over a decade. Walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting the person who controlled me and would punish me if I shared that I wanted more. I repeat these because they are a critical part of my story and we do not talk enough about the silently suffering of men.
As I write these first few words of a long story, I feel pangs of hesitation — worry that I’m showing too many cards or betraying my stoic values. They crop up in me like a cough you just can’t shake. Every now and then they affect my decision making still, presenting challenges for my current relationships. Writing this story is my way of getting that out, once and for all.
