I had no idea how much fatherhood would expose me.
Not in a shameful way. Not in a failure kind of way. But in the kind of way that calls you up—if you’re willing to answer. The kind of way that takes all your big talk and asks, “Now what?”
I became a dad earlier than I expected, and under circumstances I never could’ve prepared for. My son was born at just 28 weeks—under two and a half pounds. A fragile little fighter. He spent the first stretch of his life in an incubator at the NICU.
That day changed everything.
I was stationed in Georgia, part of the 823rd Base Defense Squadron. My wife was in Florida, house-sitting for her parents. The pregnancy had been rough at first—dehydration, nausea, uncertainty—but once the second trimester hit, things seemed to level out. We exhaled.
Until that call.
She had fainted while walking the dog. Ended up in the hospital. Then transferred to Winnie Palmer in Orlando. I dropped everything and started driving—just praying, begging God to let me make it before our son was born. And that she would be okay. That they both would.
I did.
And when I saw him—so small, so vulnerable—my heart cracked open in a way I didn’t know it could.
That NICU season was brutal. MRI scans. Procedures. Wires and beeps. Nurses and surgeons and specialists. But I showed up. Every time. They’d ask parents to step out for the hard stuff—most couldn’t handle it. But I stayed. Not because I had some kind of superhuman tolerance—but because he needed me. And I needed to prove to myself that I could stand in the fire without folding.
I never met my biological father. I was raised by stepdads—some brought pain, some brought help. But that absence left a deep gap. And because of it, I’d made a vow: I would be present. Period.
But making a vow doesn’t mean you feel ready.
That NICU chapter proved something. To him. But also to me. That with God’s help, I could step up. I could be steady. I could be the man my family needed.
Breaking the Cycle
One of my biggest fears, coming from an abusive childhood, was whether I had that same fire inside me. Would I pass it down? Would I lose control one day and become the man I swore I’d never be?
There have been moments—times when I raised my voice or showed frustration more than I would have liked to. But every time, I’ve come back to my son or daughter, apologized, and reset. Not just for them. For me.
And honestly, I’ve been surprised.
Surprised by the calm. Surprised by the patience. Surprised that the way I talk to them—clear, direct, firm, but not harsh—is something I never received, but somehow learned to give.
A lot of that credit goes to my wife and her parents. They challenged me early on—pointed out the way I’d raise my voice in public, especially in quiet places like restaurants. And at first, it stung. But over time, their honesty helped me grow. Helped me show up better.
I get a lot of compliments about how I parent. That means a lot. But what means more is knowing that they feel safe. That the house they’re growing up in isn’t like mine was.
We don’t move all the time. We’re not scraping for groceries. They’re not bearing the weight of adult worries. They get to be kids. They live in an environment that feels safe and predictable. And even when life throws us curveballs, they’re not the ones absorbing the stress.
I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. I’m sure some of those will show up in therapy one day. But compared to the fear I had about what kind of father I’d be? I’m at peace with who I’ve become.
Fatherhood Beyond Biology
Just to add context—our daughter isn’t our biological child. She’s actually my wife’s niece, whom we adopted. She came into our home when she was still little. I won’t go too deep into that story here (that deserves its own article), but becoming her father was one of the most important and humbling moments of my life.
It made me realize that being a father isn’t about DNA. It’s about presence. About love. About showing up again and again, even when it’s hard.
Growth in Real Time
Sometimes, fatherhood still exposes me.
When my son is struggling. When my daughter is hurting. When they ask questions I don’t have clean answers for.
Those moments stretch me. And in a weird way, they heal me.
Because when they ask—and I can tell they’re really listening—I get to offer what I never got. I get to be present. I get to share. I get to father.
And they receive it.
That’s the part that gets me. When they actually want to hear what I have to say. When they let me speak into their lives. That’s when I feel like I’m doing something that matters.
Not because I’m perfect. But because I’m here.
And that’s what fatherhood is, really. Not having all the answers. Not being some ideal. Just showing up, consistently, and letting love transform you both.
If you’re a dad, or hoping to be one—just know it doesn’t take perfection.
It takes presence. It takes humility. And it takes trust in a Father who’s still working on you too—a Father who sees every weakness and fear, every moment where you doubt your ability to lead well, and doesn’t flinch. The kind of Father who doesn’t wait for perfection but steps in with patience. The kind who strengthens your hands when they’re trembling and reminds you that this role you’re in—the weight of it, the beauty of it—is shaping you too. Trusting Him means trusting that the process is still unfolding, and your presence—even with your flaws—is part of His plan to redeem the story.
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