By Kenneth Braswell, CEO, Fathers Incorporated

I can’t recall many times when my family sat together just to tell stories, at least not the kind that trace where we came from or how our name found its way into the world. Our conversations were mostly about what was happening right then — what bills were due, who got a new job, who was sick, who needed prayer. These family stories were practical and necessary, but rarely historical. Generational storytelling that knits generations together just wasn’t something we did.

Our family wasn’t built around those circles of recollection that you hear about — evenings when elders gather children close and tell tales about who loved who, who sacrificed what, or how we survived what should’ve destroyed us. Maybe it’s because my mother left her hometown when she was young, and we moved to a city where family was more of an idea than a network. We were small and scattered, connected more by the bonds we created than by the ones we inherited.

Sometimes I wish I’d heard more of those stories. The ones that give you a sense of belonging before you even understand your name. The ones that tell you why you carry your grandfather’s shoulders or your grandmother’s laugh. The ones that whisper where the strength in your spirit comes from.

But the absence of those stories did something else — it gave me a sense of responsibility. It made me realize that legacy has to start somewhere. And sometimes, that starting point is you.

When Silence Becomes a Beginning

Family Stories Month invites us to remember, but for many of us, memory doesn’t come through family heirlooms or photo albums passed from hand to hand. Sometimes, it begins in silence — in the spaces where no one told us much, and we had to build our understanding of self through what we lived rather than what we heard.

This is not uncommon in Black families. Displacement, migration, and survival have shaped the way we pass down our truths. My mother’s decision to leave home for a better life was both a breaking and a building. It meant our family tree grew in new soil, far from the stories that could’ve told me where its roots were buried.

And yet, even in that disconnection, there were hints of legacy. The way my mother prayed out loud before we ate. The way she folded her hands when she worried. The way she kept moving forward, even when it was clear she was tired. Those were her stories, unspoken ones told through action, not words.

As I grew older and began my own journey as a father, I realized that those silences still speak. And they ask us to fill them, to become the storytellers we once wished for.

Fathers as Carriers of Untold Histories

When I think about fatherhood, I often reflect on how men hold stories. We tuck them away in the corners of our memory, sometimes out of pride, other times out of pain. Many of us were raised to believe that talking about our struggles was a sign of weakness, so our stories stayed hidden behind long workdays, quiet dinners, and half-smiles that told only part of the truth.

I’ve learned through Fathers Incorporated (FI), however, that storytelling is one of the most powerful tools a father has. When a man begins to speak — not preach, not instruct, but share — something shifts. You can almost see the weight lift from his shoulders. You can see his children looking at him differently, realizing that the man they thought was made of certainty is really made of courage.

I’ve watched fathers in our programs stand up and tell their stories for the first time. Stories about absence, about learning how to love, about the fear of not being enough. And what happens in those moments is transformational. You see healing move through the room like air as men realize their stories don’t make them weak; they make them real.

That’s what legacy looks like when you strip it down to its essence. Not buildings or bank accounts, but a father telling his child, This is who I am. This is what I’ve survived. This is what I hope you’ll carry forward.

When Storytelling Heals What Silence Broke

In many families, silence was a form of protection. We didn’t always share our stories because the truth was heavy. We didn’t want our children to feel the weight of what we carried. 

The thing about silence, however, is that it doesn’t protect; it isolates. It builds walls where bridges should be, and I’ve seen those walls crumble when storytelling enters the room. 

In our Gentle Warriors Academy sessions, men talk about their fathers — how they were present but distant, loving but stern, providers but not always nurturers. In those stories, you hear both hurt and hope. Because even when their fathers fell short, these men still longed to understand them. They wanted the story behind the silence.

When I became a father, I wanted my children to know the whole of me — the struggles, the lessons, the flaws, and the triumphs. I didn’t want them to grow up wondering why I worked the way I did or why I believed what I believed. And yet, even I find it easier to tell stories about my work than about my lineage. They see my life unfold publicly through books, speeches, podcasts, and projects. But the more intimate family narratives — who my grandparents were, what shaped my mother, what I’ve learned from loss — those are still stories I’m learning to tell.

Maybe that’s the invitation of Family Stories Month: to make storytelling an intentional practice. Not something that happens when nostalgia strikes, but something woven into the rhythm of family life, something that heals.

Our Stories as Cultural Preservation

For Black families, storytelling has always been an act of resistance. Long before we were allowed to read or write, we passed our truths through word of mouth. Around fires, in fields, in kitchens, in pews. We kept memory alive by speaking it.

The danger of modern life is that we’ve become so distracted by speed and spectacle that we forget to remember. Our stories risk disappearing in the noise. Social media captures moments, but not meaning. We scroll through highlights of our lives without context, without continuity.

But our stories deserve more than posts and captions. They deserve preservation. The story of how your grandfather met your grandmother. The story of how your parents built a life from scratch. The story of your first heartbreak. Your first victory. Your first moment of self-belief.

Every story is a cultural artifact. Every retelling is a reclamation. When we tell our stories, we remind the world that we are more than statistics. We are more than the narratives written about us. We are our own historians.

That’s why I believe storytelling belongs in classrooms, living rooms, and community spaces. It should be as common as prayer before a meal. It keeps us accountable to the truth of who we are and the beauty of how we’ve endured.

Technology as the New Story Circle

Today, our storytelling tools look different, but the purpose remains the same. A smartphone can now hold a family’s legacy. A podcast episode can preserve the wisdom of a generation. A video message can become an heirloom for children yet to be born.

I encourage families to record their elders. Ask them about their first job, their biggest fear, their proudest moment. Save those recordings. Transcribe them. Print them. Build digital archives your children can access long after you’re gone.

When I think about what we’ve built at FI — the I Am Dad Podcast, Poppa University, the stories that emerge from our trainings — I realize we’re archiving more than content. We’re documenting the heartbeat of fatherhood in real time. We’re capturing men redefining what it means to be present, loving, and responsible. That’s cultural preservation in its truest sense.

We can’t afford for those stories to vanish. If they do, future generations won’t know how hard we fought to build this new understanding of fatherhood.

Legacy Begins with Intention

For those of us who didn’t grow up with a chorus of family stories, it can feel daunting to start. But legacy isn’t about what you inherit; it’s about what you create. The first step is deciding that your story matters. The next step is telling it.

Start simple. Write one page about your childhood. Record one voice note about a lesson life taught you. Share one story at the dinner table about the day you almost gave up but didn’t. That’s how legacy begins — in small acts of honesty.

I often tell fathers that our children don’t need us to be perfect; they need us to be real. They need our laughter, our scars, our faith, our failures. Because those are the ingredients of resilience, the stories that remind them they’re part of something larger than themselves.

When I look at my own children, I hope they see more than my accomplishments. I hope they see the man who kept building even when he was tired, the man who loved deeply, the man who found purpose in helping others do the same. That’s my story. And if I tell it right, it becomes their inheritance.

Passing the Mic to the Next Generation

The beauty of storytelling is that it doesn’t belong to one generation. It’s a relay. Every story told invites another story in response.

I’ve seen young people transform when they’re given space to share their truth. They start to see their lives not as random events, but as part of a greater unfolding. They recognize patterns of strength that existed long before they were born.

This is why family storytelling matters. It’s not just about nostalgia. It’s about continuity. It’s about preparing the next generation to carry the torch. So ask your children questions that make them think. Tell them about your first heartbreak or your hardest lesson. Show them that vulnerability is strength. When they understand your story, they’re better equipped to write their own with purpose.

Where the Story Begins Again

National Family Stories Month challenges us to start telling what hasn’t been told, to turn memory into movement.

For those like me, who didn’t grow up with rich circles of storytelling, this is your time. Be the first storyteller in your lineage. Be the one who decides your family’s narrative will not fade into silence.

You don’t need to know every name in your family tree to start. You only need to know your own story and have the courage to share it. When you do, you begin a ripple that touches generations you’ll never meet.

Our stories are not just reflections of where we’ve been but blueprints for where we can go. Every word we speak, every truth we write, every lesson we pass down becomes part of the architecture of our family’s future.

A Closing Reflection

When I think back on the stories my family didn’t tell, I no longer feel loss. I feel invitation. Maybe the silence wasn’t emptiness but a space waiting to be filled. Maybe the absence of those stories was a way of saying, You will be the one to begin.

So this November, I’ll start where I am. I’ll tell my children what I know, what I’ve learned, and what I still hope to understand. I’ll remind them that our story began in perseverance, not perfection.

That, to me, is what National Family Stories Month is really about: not just remembering the past, but authoring the present… not just celebrating what we’ve inherited, but creating what we want to leave behind.

The greatest story any of us can tell is the one that begins with us and continues long after we’re gone. Our stories are our strength. Our storytelling is our legacy. And our legacy begins today.