The image of my father that sticks with me most isn’t one of grand gestures. It’s the quiet consistency of his presence. It’s the worn-out look of his work shoes by the door, the sound of his car pulling into the driveway at the same time every evening, the weight of his hand on my shoulder, a silent assurance that he was there. For years, I saw these things as simple facts of life, the unchangeable backdrop of my world. Now, standing on the cusp of my potential fatherhood, I see them for what they were: daily acts of sacrifice, a quiet language of commitment I’m only now beginning to understand.
As we get older, our parents transform from gods into people. Their choices, once immutable laws of the universe, reveal themselves as decisions made by a man who was often tired, likely uncertain, but always resolved. I look at my father now and I’m in awe, not of a superhero, but of the sheer, unrelenting effort. The quiet heroism of showing up, every single day, for a future he was building but might not fully get to see. That is the inheritance that leaves me breathless.
Happy Father’s Day to him, the original architect of my world. And Happy Father’s Day to my brother, and to all the other new fathers in the trenches of that beautiful, bewildering first chapter. Welcome to the journey. I can only imagine the mix of profound love and sheer panic you’re feeling. If there is one piece of advice I can offer from the sidelines, it is this: be kind to yourself. You are not just raising a child; you are raising yourself into a father.
It is a role you learn on the job, and the learning is as much about discovering your child as it is about rediscovering yourself. You will be confronted with the limits of your patience, the depths of your love, and the echoes of your childhood. You will find joy in moments so small they are almost invisible and feel a weight of responsibility so immense it feels sacred. It is a journey of becoming, and it is the most important work you will ever do.
This brings me to my path, a more internal one for now. For months, I’ve been in a quiet dialogue with myself, turning over a single question: “Why do I want to be a father?” For a long time, I think I assumed it was a natural, inevitable step, the next logical beat in the rhythm of a life. But to step into fatherhood consciously, I’ve realized, requires more than assumption. It requires interrogation.
I know that we often parent from one of two places: a place of repetition or a place of repair. We either unconsciously repeat the patterns of our upbringing or we consciously seek to repair the parts that were broken. To want a child from a place of “healing”—to offer them a security you may not have had, or to give a voice to a part of you that was silenced—is a noble instinct. But it is incomplete. A child cannot be a tool for our self-actualization.
The real work, I’m learning, is to arrive at a place of wholeness before they arrive. To sort through your baggage so they don’t have to carry it. It’s about asking: Am I seeking to be a father to fill a void within myself, or to guide a new soul from a place of fullness? Do I want to be a father to prove something, or to simply be something, a steady, loving, present man?
Knowing your “why” is the foundation. It’s what separates fatherhood as an identity from fatherhood as an act of service. It’s the anchor that will hold you steady when the nights are long and the days are trying. It’s the difference between seeing a child as a reflection of your legacy and seeing them as their person, a sacred trust you are privileged to shepherd.
Fatherhood, I see now, is not a destination. It’s a calling. It’s a call to be better, to dig deeper, and to love more fiercely than you thought possible. It’s a legacy passed down from men like my father, a challenge being met by men like my brother, and a question that I am learning to answer for myself, with intention and with hope.