The Start of the Comeback is When We Transform Pain into Power.

This is a guest post by Rob Giumarra. It contains content that may be distressing or triggering to some readers, including mental health struggles and suicidal ideation. Please take care of your well-being and read at your own pace or choose to skip this post if needed.

The journey started while I was working for a Fortune 500 Company, going through a custody battle and divorce. I had endured a marriage of 12 years where my wife struggled with her mental health, where she physically tried to hit me, verbally abused me, and all I did is what I was taught as a man from my family and bad theology: suck it up.

“Don’t say anything,”

“It’s your fault you're not the leader God made you,”

“If you were more spiritual you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

And in the midst of it all, I get a phone call from the police. The mother of my three sons, who had previously that same day drove under the influence, then decided to try and take her life later on. Worst yet was hearing that this was the second attempt. But yet not one of her friends notified me; they stayed quiet, to protect her, and ignoring the safety of my children.

Furious, full of rage, and saddened, at the same time trying to make sense of the chaos.

Suddenly I was thrust into a situation where I would experience betrayal by my own family, shamed and isolated by the church I had attended.  

When my journey as a single dad began, I was unprepared for the relentless challenges. The most important to me was for my sons to have a relationship with their mother. For them to honor her, because she was always going to be their mother. I worked odd jobs, hustling to keep the lights on, but too often, it wasn’t enough. As a single dad, I faced relentless financial strain—multiple evictions; seven to be exact. We moved from place to place, sometimes with only days to pack up our lives. Underemployment and periods of unemployment meant scraping by, often choosing between rent and groceries.

Social service programs, meant to be a safety net, felt like a maze of bureaucracy with little relief.  They only served to compound the wounds I felt as a child-having lived through the experience of being evicted as my mom was a single mother. I remember the shame of standing in line at social service offices, hoping for a lifeline, only to be met with bureaucracy and indifference. Social services denied aid due to technicalities, leaving me feeling invisible.

The world can be unforgiving to those who fall through its cracks.

The weight of providing for my children’s future while surviving the present pushed me to my mental brink. Three boys, one dad, no answers. Keep going. All I was doing was stuffing it deeper and deeper inside. Betrayal by my own family who tried to break us up instead of giving us a hand up. Imagine your own family telling you that you should put your kids in foster care, so that they could separate them to get a financial gain from it. Now imagine saying this to someone who had experienced as a child a relationship with his own father who abandoned and rejected him.

That was me and it was what I had carried all of my life. He once tried to convince my mother to have an abortion while she was pregnant with me while he had already gotten another woman pregnant. Because I had to provide strength, protection, provision, where my father didn’t, I had to have all the answers. The lowest points kept happening—hungry, hopeless, and facing another eviction notice. While my boys stayed with a friend or family, I often slept in my car. It was a cycle that I seemingly couldn’t escape, I was drowning, I was suffering in silence.

The shame of failing my boys time after time  gnawed at me. I applied for countless jobs, only to face rejections or low-wage offers that couldn’t sustain us. A constant search for validation in relationships, for a partner to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, a place where my heart would be safe and not feel the pain of rejection and abandonment that I felt as a child. The isolation was suffocating, and suicidal ideations crept in, whispering I’d never be enough.

I’d sit alone in the darkness, feeling the weight of failure pressing down. The thoughts that crept in were dark and dangerous—whispers that maybe my boys would be better off without me. But in those moments, I’d hear their laughter echoing down the hall, looking at a picture, or something from a special bin of items that I kept from their childhood. I’d remember why I had to keep fighting.

In 2023, that Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve—the latter being the hardest because that is the day my father passed away in hospice after his battle with cancer in 1998, the holidays hit hard. A breakup with a woman who I loved but abandoned the relationship because of my financial struggles. We had no decorations up, no tree, no money for me to give my boys anything, not even the traditional Hess Toy Trucks that I would get them every Christmas.

It was then I had rehearsed it, I took the black belt, tied it in such a way that I could hang myself from the railing of the wrought iron banister. My oldest was away for Christmas, my middle son had already enlisted in the US Navy and my youngest was the only one around but he was busy with his friends who had just returned from college. This was the perfect opportunity. I held up a picture, I said goodbye to their faces, I walked up stairs, and then I broke down. And I cried and cried hoping that what I couldn’t do God would do it for me. 

This journey wasn’t linear; it was messy, raw, and real. But every eviction, every tear, refined me. Restoration came through God, His grace and mercy. Redemption is living fully for my boys and myself, knowing we’re enough.

To any single parent reading this: you’re not alone. Keep going—one step, one day, one victory at a time. Vulnerability is a form of strength, not weakness. I openly share about the struggles, the setbacks, and the small victories that make up my journey. My prayer and hope for you as you read this is that my God, my father, gave me permission to share my journey with you, and to believe that my story mattered enough to help you share yours. Because you are so important. Because your story matters to someone who you may never meet, see, or ever hear from, but it matters. Your story isn’t just history, it is His story, the story He, God wants to tell in you, through you and with you.

Raising three boys alone was a crucible that nearly broke me, but God was using it to forge a stronger version of myself. The journey from that dark place has been one of redemption. Today, the life my sons and I share is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. The scars of our past are not symbols of shame, but reminders of the battles we have overcome together. We have found a new definition of wealth, one that is not measured in dollars, but in the strength of our bond, our shared laughter, and our unwavering love.

My story is not one of a perfect father, but of a father who refused to be defined by his darkest moments. It is a story of hope, a testament to the fact that even from the deepest despair, a life of purpose, love, and redemption is possible. For any man out there who feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, know this: you are not alone, and your story is far from over.

But through it all, I found God again and again. And He helped me find me. His beloved son, in whom He is well pleased. If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it—struggling, feeling invisible, thinking you can’t go on—know that you’re not alone. There is strength in vulnerability, and there is hope on the other side of hardship. My boys and I are living proof that restoration and redemption are possible, one day, one step, one dad at a time. This is how I was able to transform pain into power. I love you. 

You can follow Rob at @1DadAtATime on Instagram.