Nathaniel A. Turner on Fatherhood, Boundaries & Healing

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/11/16

Nathaniel A. Turner, JD, M.A.L.S., is a speaker, author, and co-founder of the League of Extraordinary Parents, advancing intergenerational healing and evidence-based parenting. Drawing on two decades of estrangement from his father, Turner helps children and caregivers turn unspoken wounds into intentional love. His framework emphasizes emotional fluency, self-repair over revenge, and practices that interrupt cycles of shame and punishment. Turner consults, writes, and teaches restorative approaches that build resilient family systems “from conception to casket.” Through journaling-forward habits, boundary-setting, and guidance on early childhood development, he equips families to create healthier connections and durable legacies.

This interview with Nathaniel A. Turner explores fatherhood, boundaries, and intergenerational healing. Turner recounts rejecting harmful patterns set by his estranged father and choosing presence for his own son, Naeem. He defines emotional fluency as self-aware, responsible action that prioritizes repair over revenge and health over performative behaviour. A vivid story—being turned away when introducing his newborn to his father—illustrates how boundaries protect new families. Turner advocates “journaling forward,” intention-setting, and a Lamaze-style parenting curriculum focused on brain development, language, and caregiving. He warns fathers that legacy is written by children, and urges living each day as the eulogy you’d want.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today we’re here with Nathaniel A. Turner, JD, M.A.L.S., co-founder of the League of Extraordinary Parents and a thinker on intergenerational healing. This is an essential note because my dad was an alcoholic—or, more appropriately, struggled with alcohol misuse. He died last December. We had the funeral in July. The worst family turbulence came when I was eight or nine, raised by a single mom. He was not very responsible. His substance abuse worsened as he struggled to adjust to life after divorce.

I took his drunk calls as abusive—certainly for the things he said—but it was really his inability to manage his emotions and grief, and his attempt to find reassurance from people who were barely in his life. So there’s a certain symmetry between you and me.

At one point, there was a police incident at our home, and that was when I cut him out of my life. It was a conscious estrangement that lasted about ten years. The only times I saw him after that were at his father’s funeral, my uncle’s funeral, his mother’s funeral, and, most recently, the viewing after he died.

According to those who knew him, he never improved. My protective boundary, as psychology would put it, was the right move—it prevented what would have been worse. How do you define emotional fluency for adults, particularly adult children who have estranged parents or trauma in that context?

Nathaniel A. Turner: My story is similar to yours regarding distance from my father. I intentionally stayed away, not only for myself, but also because I was a father and feared becoming him. Hopefully I’m answering your question; if not, please redirect me.

The man who calls me Dad—I try not to say “my son” because it suggests ownership. He doesn’t belong to me. I invited him to the planet. If anyone should be attached, it’s to the responsibility of fatherhood. Naim is the one who calls me Dad.

Naim was about one, maybe one and a half, during the second Father’s Day since his birth. I saw a Hallmark commercial about fathers, sons, and grandfathers fishing. I broke down. Naim was with me, a baby with no idea what was happening. It hit me that I was about to lose my relationship with him by lamenting something that would never be. I needed to pour my energy into the life that wanted me around, not the one that didn’t. That has been my approach to being a father and to distancing myself from my own father.

Jacobsen: What’s the line between empathy and firm boundaries? Boundaries are a new concept for many adults in North American culture.

Turner: My dad created the boundaries, not me. When I learned I was going to be a father, I called him. “Hey, I’m going to be a dad—LaTonya’s my wife. We’re headed to the hospital. When the child is born, I want you to come meet your grandchild.” He didn’t come. In the hospital, they let you stay—

They keep you for 36 to 48 hours, then they discharge you. My son was born on a Tuesday, and by Thursday, they sent us home. We stayed with my mother for two days. At the time, I had just finished law school at Valparaiso and accepted a job at Purdue. We stayed with my mother in Merrillville because we had some post-delivery nurse visits and needed to be local.

I was waiting for my father to visit. He and my mother were divorced. He never showed up. So that Saturday morning, as I was getting ready to take my newborn and my wife back to Lafayette, where we were going to live, I stopped by to see my father first. I rang the doorbell. He finally came to the door and said, “Hey, how can I help you?” I had the baby in my arms and said, “I want you to meet your grandson.” He extended his hands, and I thought he was reaching to hold him. Instead, he pushed them forward to keep him away and said, “I don’t like babies. Bring him back when he’s grown.”

He constructed the boundary. At that point, I decided I wasn’t going to allow him to begin my child’s life by repeating the same destructive behaviour he’d shown me. I wouldn’t let him do that to another person. The boundary I had to create afterward mainly was with my other family members—those who tried to remind me, “He’s your dad; you owe him respect. You should let him be part of your life.” They’d ask, “Did you send your father a Father’s Day card? It’s his birthday—did you call him?” I tried to, but it never changed anything. Eventually, I told my mother, “If you ask me to do this again, you’ll be the next person I stop communicating with.”

Jacobsen: That’s a quiet scenario with an emotional tone of high conflict. You framed it as a boundary, but it sounds more like a border fence. When people talk about boundaries, they usually describe something mutually dignified. Your father putting his hands out to block his grandchild—and you setting a limit at the exact moment—doesn’t sound dignified for any of the three of you.

Turner: I agree. There’s a quote—I can’t recall the source, but I think it was Stephen Colbert in an interview with Anderson Cooper—”You have to learn to love the things you wish hadn’t happened.” I believe that. If my father had been different, then my relationship with my son might have been different, too. I might not be talking to you today. So I’m at peace with how things turned out. It didn’t kill me; it actually made me stronger and able to help other families. I suffered a little, I suppose, but in the big picture, it’s not a big deal.

Jacobsen: How can families break cycles of shame that keep repeating?

Turner: Young families need to take an honest assessment of who they are before becoming parents. I’ve said to my son—and I’ve written something about this, I haven’t yet published—called Before You Unzip Your Pants. The idea is this: if someone asked me what I’d want to tell Naim, I’d say to him to analyze a few things.

First, he should examine who his father is, because a lot of me is in him. I’m his tree; he’s my fruit. Whether he likes all of me or not, all of me is part of him. Then, I’d ask him to investigate his mother—not as his mom, but as a person. If it’s true that men often choose partners who reflect their mothers, I want him to understand who she is—not just the woman who makes cookies or bandages his knees, but the person she is as a partner, as a wife, as someone in a relationship with another adult.

Those are the two main things: know who you are and know who your partner is. Then ask yourself what your objective is before bringing another life into the world.

Jacobsen: What’s the objective in having a family? Are you having a child because you feel lonely or incomplete, or because you genuinely want something better for the person you’re bringing into the world? What do fathers most need to hear but usually don’t?

Turner: Fathers need to hear that it’s hard work—and that there’s no such thing as work-life balance. If they think they can have everything, they’ll end up with nothing. Too many men measure their worth by their income, the size of their home, or the shine of their car. But here’s what I remind them—because my father should have known this: when he passed away, after not speaking to his son for twenty years, he left nothing behind that mattered.

I saw my father about six months before he died, on May 13, 2018. A close friend of mine—his name’s also Scott—had a mother dying of cancer, so I went home to Gary, Indiana, to see her. As I was leaving the hospital, I thought I should visit my father. So I went to his house, rang the doorbell, and he answered. He looked at me and said, “How may I help you?” I said, “Dad, really? This is what we’re doing?” He replied, “How do you know I’m your father?”

I said, “My mom told me.” He shot back, “How would your mother know?”

So now he’s insulting my mother. I said, “It’s cool, dude. I came to see you. Scott’s mom is in the hospital.” It was 27 degrees outside, I had no coat on, and we were having this ridiculous conversation at the door. Eventually, he let me in, but the talk went nowhere. That was the last time we spoke.

You know who wrote his obituary? Me. I got to have the last word. And here’s what I tell fathers: you can act however you want, but you won’t write your own obituary. You won’t give your own eulogy. Someone else—probably your child—will write the final words about your life. So whatever legacy you want to leave, you’d better be living it every day. Otherwise, the story told about you will be very different—and it lasts for eternity.

Jacobsen: How do you frame intergenerational healing and reconciliation, especially when the paternal figure is defensive or closed off?

Turner: The healing is mine, not his. It’s for me, not for him. Like the old saying goes, “Physician, heal thyself.” My healing exists so that my son can live better. I love him enough to do the inner work required to be better for him. I have no intention of repeating what my father did.

That means being mindful and deliberate. I’m a big note taker—I write in my journal every day. I call it journaling forward. Every morning for twenty minutes, I write my life the way I want it to be, not the way it is. Many days, I write about the father I want to be: this is who I am, this is how I show up. It’s a daily reminder of my responsibility.

The pain from my childhood still informs me—it doesn’t disappear—but it doesn’t define me anymore. I’ll never repeat the generational curses that shaped my father’s life.

Jacobsen: What signals that family healing is genuinely happening, and what falsely appears like healing but isn’t?

Turner: We’re heading into the holidays, so you already know how this plays out. People convince themselves that a dinner invitation equals reconciliation. But healing isn’t the same as pretending the wound never existed. It’s about changing the pattern, not covering it with sentiment.

During the holidays, people assume everything is fine and want families to gather because that’s what families do—they pretend we’re all one big happy unit. That’s the false version of healing you mentioned. The authentic version is different. It’s realizing there comes a point when you must take care of yourself so you can stay healthy, whatever that looks like for you. And if others depend on you, you do it for them, too.

Jacobsen: How would you redesign parenting in North America to reduce these kinds of family fractures?

Turner: One of the first things I’d change is how we prepare people for parenting. Have you heard of Lamaze?

Jacobsen: No.

Turner: Lamaze is a childbirth method—expecting parents take classes for about eight weeks to learn breathing techniques, how to manage contractions, and even how to eat ice chips during labour. But once the baby is born, there’s no training at all. I’ve long argued that America needs something like Lamaze for parenting—a structured, practical process focused on raising children, not just delivering them.

Every new parent says, “There’s no manual for this,” which is absurd. We have manuals for everything. When we brought Naim home, I had to read a car seat manual to figure out how to install it—but there was no manual for raising him. We need something like that. It doesn’t have to be heavy-handed or government-controlled, but families should at least understand what kind of being they’re bringing home—how a child’s brain develops in the first seven years, how language learning works, and how early experiences shape long-term behaviour.

If parents had even a basic grasp of those things, they’d make better decisions from the start. And if they choose not to follow the guidance, that’s their choice. But pretending there’s “no manual” for parenting is one of the most foolish myths we keep repeating.

Jacobsen: Thank you very much for your time today. I appreciate it.

Turner: My pleasure.

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