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I sent one Whatsapp message of thanks to a group of Black dads and everything changed

Yahoo News – Insights speaks directly to the people with an inside track on the big issues. Here, Marvyn Harrison explains how a Whatsapp message started a movement for Black dads. Marvyn Harrison is the founder of Dope Black Dads and Dope Black Men. He is a regular contributor to Good Morning Britain, Steph's Packed Lunch, The Kick Off, and BBC 5Live. He has published two children's books with Pan Macmillan Kids, "I Love Me" and "The Best Me", and is soon to announce another book focused on helping men with personal transformation. On Father's Day 2018, I sent a message to a few friends, thanking them for being examples of fatherhood I could admire. At the time, it came from a place of unease. I wasn't sure if I was doing enough — for my children, for their mother, or for myself. I felt disconnected — present in action but not fully in energy. I remember that day clearly. I was exhausted when someone shared an image on Instagram: a father pushing his child on a swing. He looked tired too, but he was there — fully present. That image stayed with me. It captured something I couldn't yet name: the quiet persistence it takes to keep showing up with love, even when no one is watching. ADVERTISEMENT Advertisement I grew up in East London, Hackney, as one of four children raised by my Jamaican mother and grandmother. My father wasn't present. It was the women in my life who built my foundations: shaping my values, showing me how to move through the world, and instilling care — especially for those pushed to the margins. So that day, when I messaged a few close friends to say, 'Thank you for being visions of fathers I can follow,' it wasn't just appreciation — it was reaching out. "Dads get overlooked — and Black dads rarely get credit,' wrote one friend. The response was immediate: messages of gratitude, honesty, vulnerability. It became clear that this wasn't just my experience. There was a hunger among Black fathers for a space to be seen, heard, and understood — without judgment. ADVERTISEMENT Advertisement A WhatsApp group wasn't enough. Within months, I went to a studio, gathered a few friends, and recorded our first conversation. That's how Dope Black Dads began. I worked as an advertising strategist at a major agency until 2020, and I loved solving problems. But I made a career shift to find more joy and freedom — freedom to interpret data through my lens as a working-class, Black father from London. We launched in October 2018, during Black History Month. Today, over 60 contributors from around the world join in — from co-parenting and blended families to race, sex, and identity. What started as a WhatsApp group of 23 Black fathers in London has grown into a global digital community of 40,000 men discussing Black fatherhood. (Image supplied) The First Time I Saw Myself on Stage The first stage production I ever saw that made me think about Fatherhood was Barbershop Chronicles. Watching Black men of all ages simply being themselves — playful, vulnerable, angry, joyful — was transformative. It was more than entertainment; it was a mirror. That experience affirmed what we were creating through Dope Black Dads: a space where Black men could be fully themselves without apology. Where honesty was valued over perfection, not just through one-dimensional narratives. ADVERTISEMENT Advertisement When I heard about the Black girl who was strip-searched in school, it brought me to reflective silence. Moments of pride — like seeing Lewis Hamilton acknowledge his mother's maiden name — remind me why it's so necessary to hold space, speak up, and stay present. The community changed me. It also sparked something wider: the birth of Dope Black Mums, Dope Black Women, Dope Black Men, and Dope Black Queers — each creating spaces on their own for connection, growth, and support. We started talking about therapy, money, intimacy, mental health — topics that would've been taboo among men just a decade ago. This work also forced us to confront what we'd absorbed about identity: ideas about manhood, success, and emotion. We had to unlearn the myth that strength meant silence, or that value came from financial stability alone. Therapy became necessary, not optional. We started showing up differently, for each other and ourselves. If someone was stuck — in a job, relationship, or emotionally — we sat with him. Fatherhood and the Future Raising my son, now nine, and my daughter, seven, I want them to know they don't have to choose between strength and softness. They can be both. Marvyn Harrison says he and his partner are building a home where care is the foundation, not the afterthought. (Image supplied) The release of Adolescence and the BBC documentary The Angry Black Man? reminded me why this work matters. The anger was never just about rage — it was about boys expected to be tough before they're ready. About being misunderstood, unseen. These projects made it impossible to ignore how often young male emotion is misread — especially when it's Black. ADVERTISEMENT Advertisement We can't wait for institutions to catch up. At 41, I'm raising children in a society that still struggles to fully see us. I feel both the weight and the gift of this work. My partner and I are building a home where care is the foundation, not the afterthought. Where being strong doesn't mean being silent. What started as a WhatsApp group of 23 Black fathers in London has grown into a global digital community of 40,000 men discussing Black fatherhood. It started with a message of gratitude. It became a movement. And it's still growing — because we refuse to leave each other behind. *As told to Rabina Khan