To Father

Growing up, I wish I had a more social dad. I never saw this man utter the word "love" or "proud." He was always silent. Would speak only when oral communication was necessary. You'd think he had a limited amount of words he could speak in his entire lifetime.

When I was 9 years old, I started attending Judo. I was great at it. Reached this brown belt in like a few months. But frankly, I didn't give a shit about those fancy colors. I wanted my dad to talk with me. And maybe make him say a few nice words. So Judo was a certain way to evaporate the ice surrounding this numb man's soul. He'd show up to the contests, though. He'd just watch. I'd sometimes glance over to see if his lips would go upward. But no. He'd just keep watching and watching. The same reaction would await regardless of the outcome.

Even for my academics, he'd never scold me for getting bad marks. No reaction when I failed my admissions. No reaction after I failed it again (even after a gap year). It just seemed to me at some point that he didn't really care at all. Whatever I did, however I did, whenever I did, I'd always confront the emotionless face of my father behind his old 2000s-style sunglasses. He didn't seem to care an ounce.

Or at least that's what I thought up until very recently. After failing to get into college for the second time, I took some time to reflect on my life. I needed to make sense of this situation that was slowly infiltrating my happy teenagehood. While spending time in Samarkand and detoxing from social media, I realized that my father actually did care deeply—he just didn't show it the way I expected.

In fact, his visiting my judo matches was him showing his care. His teaching me English early on was his care. His investing tens of thousands of dollars into my education and not even scolding me when I failed twice in a row was him showing his care. His paying me 1.5k just to partake in some silly english competition abroad was him show that he cared.

My Dad thinks he couldn't spend enough quality time with me growing up; coming to Tashkent as a new family, no house initially, a hard time finding jobs, and changing apartments times in a row, and all that crap had just made him silent, numb, and emotionless. But as I think back again, he taught me waay more than anyone else could. He taught me how to endure without breaking. How to carry weight without complaint. How to show love through action when words fail you.

He taught me that strength isn't loud—it's the quiet decision to keep going when everything inside you wants to stop. That providing isn't just about money; it's about showing up consistently, even when you're exhausted, even when no one notices.

He taught me that emotional intelligence isn't about expressing every feeling; rather, about reading what others need and meeting them there. Those judo matches? He knew I needed him present, even if I wanted him cheering. He gave me what I actually needed: proof that he'd always show up.

Most importantly, he taught me that men can break under the weight of survival and still find ways to love. That you can be emotionally exhausted and still emotionally present. That sometimes the most articulate thing you can say is nothing at all, being just silent.

I spent years wishing he were different, a dad who fit me. Now I wonder if I'm a fitting son for this silent, caring man.