Invisible Heroes: The Good Men Who Raised Me

When people hear me speak about The Invisible Woman, or read my poetry and essays critiquing rigid patriarchal systems, some assume that I must hate men.

I do not.

I love men.

In fact, my life has been shaped by many invisible heroes: good men who helped raise me into the strong, sometimes awkward, deeply independent woman I became.

I was not raised by a mother after the age of five. My mother struggled with addiction and other illnesses that kept her from being consistently present in the lives of my brothers and me. Instead, I was raised by a single father and four brothers who unintentionally raised me as a feminist of sorts: not because they taught me to hate men, but because they taught me to stand beside them as an equal.

I was never raised to fear men.

I was never raised to believe I was beneath them.

I was raised to look good men directly in the eye as a fellow human being.

In our home, everyone cooked. Everyone cleaned. Everyone contributed. Gender was never treated as an excuse.

My father proudly called himself “Mr. Mom,” and he wore that title with honour.

My oldest brother, Tom, became one of the greatest invisible heroes of my childhood.

Tom was only ten years old when he quietly stepped into the role of second parent. He taught me how to bake sugar cookies, gingerbread, and squares months before Christmas so Dad would not have to carry everything alone through the holidays. He taught me how to make my first meatloaf. He taught me how to cut corners while drying dishes so we could get outside faster and still technically finish our chores.

But more importantly, Tom taught me what gives a man value.

Not money.

Not appearance.

Not power.

Heart.

You see, Tom was born with a birth defect. He had no elbow on one arm and could not fully move two of his fingers. But as a child, I barely noticed. I did not see disability when I looked at my brother.

I saw Tom.

The best big brother a girl could ever ask for.

Tom excelled in sports despite the limitations others might have expected him to carry. He played competitive hockey, baseball, basketball, and volleyball. I remember being hauled all over the countryside to arenas and practices before sunrise so he could play hockey. I remember him being one of the strongest players on the ice and one of the top scorers.

Tom was massive by fourteen. He was the kind of teenager who already had a full beard and looked twenty-five years old in hockey gear. Opposing players never noticed his shortened arm until after the game, and by then, nobody dared say a word because Tom carried himself with such confidence and strength.

Yet for all that toughness, Tom was incredibly gentle.

He loved literature and the arts.

Because of him, I read Romeo and Juliet years before my classmates — though admittedly, I hated it at the time. He introduced me to Beowulf and taught me to appreciate English literature long before I understood why it mattered.

Most importantly, he taught me to love reading when I struggled with it myself.

He would read The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter aloud to me, then stop at the best parts so I would have no choice but to continue reading on my own.

That was Tom’s magic.

He never forced growth: He inspired it.

One memory has stayed with me my entire life...

When I was eight years old, our school organized a trip to see a production of "The Wizard of Oz" at the Fort Steele Theatre. My family could not afford for me to go. My dad was raising five children alone without child support, and every dollar mattered.

Tom had saved money for himself to attend, but when he saw how heartbroken I was, he gave up his ticket so I could go instead.

He told me he had already seen a play before, and that hearing me tell him about it afterward would be even better.

That was the kind of young man he was.

Later, after he moved out, Tom would still drive thirty minutes to pick me up from Jaffray just to take me to movies. Then he would drive me all the way home again before making the extra trip back to Cranbrook himself.

A nineteen-year-old boy spending an hour and a half driving, paying for gas, tickets, and popcorn, simply because he wanted to stay connected to his little sister.

Those are the kinds of men who raised me.

Not perfect men.

Good men.

So no — I am not anti-man.

I am not anti-faith.

I am not even anti-patriarchy in the absolute sense, because any system can function beautifully when rooted in balance, humility, and mutual respect.

What I push against is rigidity.

Control without compassion.

Power without equality.

I was raised believing I belonged at the decision-making table, not beneath it, and not serving it as an outsider.

I was taught to stand tall, even when I felt small.

I was taught to look powerful people in the eye without surrendering my humanity.

I was taught to stand up for what was right, even when it was scary or impossible.

That belief later created tension for me when I converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at eighteen years old. I still love my faith deeply. I still cherish many of its teachings and people. But I learned to separate faith from culture.

Christ taught brotherhood, equality, compassion, and dignity.

Human beings sometimes struggle to live those teachings perfectly.

I do not reject faith.

I reject the idea that any human being is born lesser.

I refuse to disappear into the shadows because of my gender, my background, or my personality.

I was raised to believe that every human being belongs to one family.

Some people call that belief God.

Some call it science.

Some call it love.

Some call it humanity.

Whatever name we choose, I believe goodness matters more than status.

When I ask my father how he taught us morality without regular Sunday services, he simply tells me he did what he saw his own mother do for him.

And honestly?

That has always been enough for me.

My father and my brothers taught me goodness through example.

I may not always know how to behave like a “normal” girl according to society’s standards. I may be too loud in some rooms, too direct in others, too independent for systems that prefer quiet compliance.

But I was taught the recipe for a good life.

And much of that recipe came from good men.

So today, I want to thank the invisible heroes — the fathers, brothers, grandfathers, mentors, coaches, teachers, and friends who quietly show the world what balanced strength looks like.

Thank you for proving that masculinity and gentleness can coexist.

Thank you for teaching girls like me to stand tall.

And thank you for reminding us that real leadership never demands another human being become smaller so that you can feel bigger.

Thank you for showing humanity what it means to be "real men" in positions of leadership: your example shines brighter than you may ever know.

Happy 72nd Birthday, dad...

Click to listen to my family's song: https://suno.com/s/TT3CFWu2DxUCc12O