Finding My Voice: A Father’s Legacy of Confidence

“I scored a basket, Papa!” “Good job. Nice basket!” “Thanks!”

Why did I find these ten words so poignant?

Reading Lincoln’s message to my dad—his grandfather—provided an instant moment of clarity.

A week earlier, my dad came to celebrate my younger son’s birthday, showing immense grace and strength. He greeted everyone, gave warm hugs, and even brought both boys a new basketball and football. But more than that, he showed a quiet yet powerful love—an ancestral pride in who we are, not just in words but in presence.

That moment carried even greater weight because for most of my life, I didn’t know my father. Not by choice—neither his nor mine. We had been kept apart, not through negligence or distance, but by forces beyond our control. The truth was hidden from us, engineered, we both believe, by hatred. It was love and God’s grace that finally revealed our connection, that allowed us to know each other at all.

And now, here he was—not just attending my son’s birthday, but fully present.

My dad and Emily now have a tradition of singing together while I accompany them on the piano. He couldn’t leave the festivities without upholding our new tradition, so I sat down to play Lionel Richie and Diana Ross’s ’80s ballad. But as I played, I was suddenly overwhelmed. Emotion swelled inside me, unexpected and unshakable. I didn’t fully understand it in the moment, but I was barely able to continue. I had to excuse myself to another room, overwhelmed by a flood of emotions I could no longer contain.

You see, my dad is a confident and accomplished singer. He once told me how his own father would come home from work and play the piano late into the night, filling their home with music. Their family sang together—at home, in church, at gatherings. That upbringing instilled in my dad an unshakable belief in his ability to sing, to express, to create. He never second-guessed it.

I have my dad’s voice.

Emily once told me that after dinner one night, she was in the kitchen cleaning up when she heard my dad singing. She thought it was me. Then, she admitted, “You were sounding really good.” Now, hold on a second, I thought! Should I be offended or flattered?

Whenever I visit my grandma, she tells me the same thing: “You look and sound just like your dad.” My aunts, uncles, cousins, brother, and sister all say the same. It’s an undeniable connection.

And it’s true. I do sing. I often sit at the piano late at night, playing and singing old soul, jazz, and pop tunes. I have done this for years and I do it because I love it—yet I never felt good enough. Even when no one else was listening, I scrutinized every note. And when someone was listening, I hid my voice.

Here’s the paradox: I’m a musician. I’ve had four years of voice lessons at university. I live with a world-class singer and professor of voice. I conduct orchestras and choirs—both require singing to large groups of people to demonstrate and model musical concepts. I’ve written dozens of pieces for the voice. And yet, for the longest time, I simply could not sing.

It wasn’t about ability. I have a good instrument. A strong ear. A deep understanding of technique and expression. And yet, I couldn’t stand the sound of my own voice. Every note had to be analyzed, picked apart for intonation, tone, timing, musicality—anything I could criticize, I did. Eventually, I became nearly incapable of using my voice expressively at all.

And then I read that text exchange between Lincoln and my dad.

Suddenly, I understood. Completely.

What had kept me from singing wasn’t skill or technique. It was a lack of confidence. A missing sense of belonging to a lineage of singers who simply knew they could do it.

My dad is also a great basketball player. Watching him gift my son a brand-new Wilson basketball with its gold-outlined logo, watching Lincoln fixate on my dad as they discussed the game—it was all there. Then seeing him on the court, knowing that his mother, father, brother, Uncle Dana, Aunt Gigi, Aunt Coco, Uncle Stinky, Mima and Papa—and my dad—supported and believed in him, knowing he came from a long line of athletic men, knowing it was in him, he just had to access and develop it. Even as a beginner, he grew stronger with each quarter of his first-ever basketball game.

Adding to that, my dad is unusually tall. And at almost 6'5", Lincoln loved hearing that he is now the tallest in the family. It was a moment of pride and connection for him, knowing his height was part of a family lineage, just like his growing confidence in basketball.

This is what fathers do.

They pass down confidence, belief, and strength. They show their sons—not just in words, but in presence—that they belong. That they are capable. That they can.

And in understanding this, I finally recognized the connection between my father, my grandfather, and myself. I saw it extend to my sons. And that connection gave me strength. It gave me courage. It gave me permission to love myself as I am.

Including my singing voice.

This is why I was so emotional when I heard my father sing.

There is so much data supporting this truth.

• The presence of an engaged father dramatically improves a child’s life outcomes.

• Children with involved fathers are far less likely to end up in prison, to use drugs, or to struggle with obesity.

• Children from father-absent homes are four times more likely to live in poverty, seven times more likely to become pregnant as teenagers, and more likely to struggle academically and behaviorally.

But more than statistics, I know this to be true because I felt it.

The confidence instilled from father to son is profound. When a boy knows he is supported, when he knows he is connected to something greater than himself, he thrives.

And now, I am learning to thrive, too.

Recognizing this connection to my father, my grandfather, and now my sons has helped me embrace my own voice—not just metaphorically, but literally. Knowing that I come from a lineage of singers, that I have the same voice my father carries with confidence, I am learning to trust it.

To not just love singing, but to sing with certainty, with presence, with belonging, knowing I carry the voices of my father, my grandfather, and the generations before them.