This spring, I had the privilege, thanks to the South Dakota Statewide Family Engagement Center, of facilitating a Fatherhood Circle Series—five monthly gatherings with seven men, each navigating fatherhood from a different place, a different age, a different story. We closed our time together the way I think all meaningful work should end: outside, in a park, with families present, laughter in the air, and kids running through the spaces we had spent months quietly tending.
And as I sit with it now, I realize something important:
I didn’t lead this circle as much as I was shaped by it.
I came into this experience as a father of two adult daughters, a grandfather of two incredible grandsons, and someone still actively living the role of son—with both my parents and my parents-in-law still here. I thought I understood something about the arc of fatherhood.
And I do… but only my arc.
What these seven men reminded me of—again and again—is that fatherhood isn’t a single story. It’s a living landscape, constantly shifting depending on the age of your children, the pressures of your work, your relationship, your own upbringing, and the world you’re raising kids in.
2026 is not the same world I raised my daughters in.
And these dads were generous enough to let me see that.
From the very beginning, the tone was set by something we’ve come to trust deeply in our CircleBridge work: story.
Not performance.
Not advice.
Not posturing.
Just honest, lived experience.
There were stories of joy—small moments that might go unnoticed anywhere else:
And there were stories of struggle:
What struck me most was not just what was shared—but how it was shared.
There was a willingness to be seen.
And that doesn’t happen by accident.
It happens when a space is built with care—when the agreements we hold (listening without fixing, speaking from our own experience, honoring silence) actually shape the way we show up. The Touchstones we rely on in CircleBridge aren’t just guidelines—they are what make this kind of honesty possible.
One of the most meaningful parts of our time together was something simple: every father received a journal.
And we used them.
A lot.
Sometimes the writing stayed private—quiet reflections that never needed to be shared. Other times, those pages became bridges into the circle. Words turned into stories. Stories turned into connection.
We didn’t just journal—we created.
There were poems.
There were fragments of songs.
There were lines that felt unfinished until someone else nodded and said, “Yeah… I’ve felt that too.”
At one point, we discovered that several of the men in the group were musicians and songwriters. That realization shifted something in the room. It gave permission—not just to speak—but to shape experience. To find rhythm in it. To name it in a different way.
It reminded me of something we’ve seen over and over again in Storywork: when people are invited to bring their own stories—not as polished products, but as living experiences—something opens.
The journal became more than a notebook.
It became a place where fatherhood could be explored honestly—without needing to resolve it.
There were moments in the circle when I was reminded of a simple but grounding truth: fatherhood is not a checklist.
It’s a relationship.
In a world that often pushes fathers toward doing—providing, fixing, solving—these men kept coming back to being:
That shift—from doing to being—is at the heart of Human-Shaped Learning, and honestly, it’s at the heart of good parenting too. When people feel seen, safe, and significant, growth follows.
I watched that happen in real time.
One of the quiet gifts of this experience for me was the opportunity to learn “forward.”
As someone a bit further down the path of fatherhood, I found myself listening not from a place of expertise, but from a place of curiosity.
What does it mean to be a dad right now?
What pressures are different?
What conversations are these fathers having that we weren’t having years ago?
And just as importantly:
What are they doing better?
I learned about:
There is a humility in realizing that the next generation is not just continuing the work—they are evolving it.
If I step back and look at this experience through the lens of Relational Landscaping, what we created together wasn’t just a series of meetings.
It was a small ecosystem.
A space where trust was slowly cultivated.
Where vulnerability became possible.
Where silence was allowed to do its work.
Where stories—and even songs and poems—acted as bridges between very different lives.
In healthy relational environments, growth doesn’t come from control—it comes from attention. From noticing what’s emerging, what needs care, what needs time.
That’s what this circle became.
Not something we engineered, but something we tended.
Our final gathering—with families present—felt like the most honest representation of the work we had done.
We shared food.
We watched kids play.
And we each named commitments—out loud—to our families and our children.
Before those commitments, I shared a poem I had been carrying—one that tried to capture what I had been learning alongside these men:
Becoming the Bridge
by Scott Simpson
There is a quiet you enter
once the work of pushing is done—
not the quiet of death
but of standing still in the middle,
where the river narrows.A man doesn’t build the bridge.
He becomes it.
His feet planted in his father’s gravel,
his arms lifted toward the blueprints
his children are scribbling
on the wind.The gift is not knowing—
but remaining.
The gift is not wisdom—
but being willing to listen again
to the story your own father couldn’t finish.Sometimes the gift is silence.
Sometimes it is remembering
how your grandfather’s eyes
shifted when the war was mentioned.
Or how your son’s mouth
tightens when he feels ashamed.
You don’t need the whole story
to hold both ends.There is a breath you carry
like a lantern
that flickers more than it shines.
It lights nothing ahead
but warms your ribs,
so your children can hear
how fire sounds
when it is waiting.You do not tell them
where to walk.
You tell them what it felt like
to walk blind through fog
and still come out dry.You hold their questions
like tools
in the belt your father left you.
Not answers,
but weight.
But usefulness.
But something worn smooth
by the hands of many men.Being the bridge means
you never stop aching—
but you learn the ache
is a direction.
Not pain,
but purpose stretching
from then to now to next.There are mornings you will wake
with no name for what you are.
Let them pass.
The work is below naming.
The work is the listening post
between what has been
and what could be.The greatest gift is this:
you get to stand
in the only place
where everything
still touches.
That moment—standing in a park, surrounded by families, hearing commitments spoken out loud—felt like the clearest expression of what the circle had become.
Not just a place to talk about fatherhood.
But a place to practice it.
As I reflect on this experience, I keep coming back to something we say often in CircleBridge:
Every story holds wisdom.
And when we take the time to listen—really listen—we don’t just understand others better.
We become more human ourselves.
This group of fathers reminded me that:
I came in hoping to offer something of value.
I left with far more than I gave.
If you’re curious about the Fatherhood Circle Series or want to explore the activities and resources that shaped our time together, you can find them here: sites.google.com/bhssc.org/fatherhoodcircleseries/home
And if you’re wondering whether a space like this might matter in your own community, I’d simply offer this question:
Where do the fathers in your world have space to be fully human—with each other?
Because when that space exists, something powerful begins to grow.
Dr. Scott Simpson is a learning specialist at Compass Partners in Learning in Rapid City, South Dakota, as well as an author, poet, and musician whose work centers on storytelling, relational trust, and human-centered learning. He is the co-creator of the CircleBridge framework and co-author of CircleBridge: How Stories Bring Us Together, Human-Shaped Learning, Human-Shaped Schools, Storywork, and Relational Landscaping.
He is also the author of the memoir Where the Growth Begins and three poetry collections: Restoration Blues, A Hush Between Seasons, and Use for Kindling. In addition to his writing, Scott has independently produced more than 60 music albums, reflecting his lifelong commitment to creative expression as a pathway to connection and reflection.
Scott works with educators, leaders, and communities to build cultures grounded in connection, reflection, and belonging. A father, grandfather, and lifelong learner, his work is deeply shaped by the stories he carries and the ones he continues to encounter.
Learn more at scottsimpsonmusic.com.