There is a term going viral right now — the dad friend. The one you call when something needs to be done, fixed, carried, decided, or survived. The one who shows up without drama, solves the problem, and disappears again. I realised recently that I am exactly that friend — and that maybe this isn't emotional unavailability, but a different language of care.

I am the person you call when your car won’t start, when you need to move a table that is definitely too heavy for one person, when you are standing in a shop staring at ten identical plant pots and losing the will to live. I will drive you to the airport at dawn, help you hike a mountain you underestimated, and show up with a plan when everything feels chaotic.

What I won’t do is sit for hours dissecting the same emotional problem from twelve angles, repeating the same story, validating the same loop. I won’t be your permanent emotional processing unit. I don’t enjoy endless venting. I don’t find comfort in circular conversations. And for a long time, I thought this meant I was somehow emotionally deficient.

Then I realised: I am not cold. I am operational.

The internet calls this the dad friend. Not because it is about gender, but because it is about function. Dads, culturally, are often framed as the people who fix things. They don’t always talk about feelings, but they make sure the lights are on, the tires are inflated, and someone is there when things fall apart. It is a kind of love that looks unromantic until you actually need it.

Psychology backs this distinction more than we like to admit. Research on social support consistently separates emotional support (listening, empathising, validating feelings) from instrumental support (practical help, problem-solving, tangible action). Both reduce stress. Both increase resilience. But they work through different mechanisms.

Emotional support activates feelings of safety and belonging. Instrumental support reduces cognitive load and restores a sense of control. When someone fixes the problem, your nervous system calms not because you were heard, but because the threat is gone.

Some people are wired — or trained — to prioritise emotional attunement. Others are wired to scan for solutions. Neither is superior. But modern culture, especially online, tends to moralise emotional availability as the only legitimate form of care. If you aren't ready to talk for hours, you are “closed off”. If you want to move toward action, you are “avoiding feelings”.

Neuroscience offers a less judgmental explanation. People differ in how they regulate stress. Some regulate through co-regulation — talking, sharing, synchronising emotions. Others regulate through task orientation — doing something concrete that restores order. Both strategies lower cortisol. Both can prevent emotional overload. But they feel incompatible when mismatched.

This is where conflict happens.

One friend wants to talk. The other wants to act. One feels unheard. The other feels trapped. Neither is wrong — they are just speaking different nervous-system languages.

There is also a cognitive aspect. Studies on rumination show that repeatedly revisiting the same emotional content without movement toward resolution can actually increase anxiety and depressive symptoms. For people with a solution-oriented mindset, prolonged venting doesn’t feel bonding — it feels dysregulating. Not because they don’t care, but because their brain is screaming: we are stuck.

I don’t disappear when things get hard. I just show up differently. I show up with a route, not a reflection. With logistics, not language. With action instead of analysis.

This doesn’t mean I am incapable of emotional connection. It means I ration it carefully. Emotional labour is still labour. Constant availability, especially in friendships where problems repeat without change, can quietly drain even the most stable people. Saying “I can help you fix this” instead of “tell me everything again” is sometimes an act of self-preservation.

There is also an unspoken expectation, especially placed on women, to be endlessly emotionally fluent. To listen, absorb, soothe, and hold space indefinitely. Choosing to be a “dad friend” can feel almost rebellious in that context — a refusal to perform softness on demand.

But care doesn’t have to look soft to be real.

Healthy friendships don’t require identical support styles. They require clarity. Knowing who to call when you need a hug — and who to call when you need a solution. Some people can do both. Some can’t. Pretending otherwise only breeds resentment.

I am not your shoulder to cry on. I am the person who will help you move forward.

And maybe that isn't emotional absence — maybe that is just another form of love.