Being a dad. It’s the hardest, most thankless, most glorious gig in the world. Every bleary-eyed stumble down the hallway at 3 a.m., every banana mashed into the upholstery, every inexplicable, logic-defying meltdown in the cereal aisle—each of these little brutalities is repaid in full the second those tiny arms wrap around your neck and hold on like you’re the center of gravity itself.
You get to be the one they run to, the one who knows how to fix the broken toy, the one who makes the world feel safe. For a few brief, golden years, before the weight of the world starts to press in, you are the smartest, strongest, funniest person they know. The moon follows you home because you said so. Band-Aids actually heal wounds because you put them on. And every answer you give to the endless, relentless stream of “Why?” and “How?” isn’t just a reply—it’s a gateway. A breadcrumb on a path leading to dinosaurs, black holes, the mechanics of bridges, the inner workings of engines, and the poetry of the ocean waves.
Because that’s the thing no one tells you—how being a dad isn’t just about guiding them through the world; it’s about rediscovering the world alongside them. You’ll hear the distant wail of a siren, and instead of ignoring it, you’ll find yourself explaining fire trucks and dispatch calls. You’ll see an anthill on the sidewalk, and instead of stepping past it, you’ll crouch down, watching in awe as the tiny workers carry burdens ten times their size. You’ll find yourself pointing out the phases of the moon, the way the sky changes just before the rain, the almost imperceptible difference between the honk of a goose and the honk of a duck.
You will become an encyclopedia of all things fascinating, an authority on topics you never knew you’d care about. Airplanes, dump trucks, the migration patterns of monarch butterflies. You’ll be called upon to construct elaborate, illogical bedtime stories on demand, with plot twists that make no sense and characters whose names change halfway through. You’ll know every single dinosaur by name, every Marvel hero’s backstory, and the words to more cartoon theme songs than you ever thought possible.
The internet is full of people telling you how exhausting, how soul-crushing, how absolutely obliterating parenthood can be. And they aren’t wrong. But what they fail to tell you—what they fail to shout from the rooftops—is that it’s also astonishing. It’s magic. It’s standing in the eye of a storm, holding hands with someone who thinks you hung the stars, watching them slowly start to reach up, wondering if they can touch them too.
And then, one day, you’ll realize they don’t ask for piggyback rides anymore. They don’t need you to hold their hand when they cross the street. They start answering their own questions. They grow taller, more independent, a little more sure of themselves. And you’ll miss it—the chaotic, sticky, sleepless years. You’ll miss the weight of their small body curled up against you, the way their tiny hand fit so perfectly in yours. You’ll miss being the one they turned to first.
But if you’ve done it right—if you’ve shown up, if you’ve listened, if you’ve loved them with the kind of quiet, steady presence that outlasts the sleepless nights and tantrums—you’ll still be the one they come to. Maybe not for every scraped knee or every impossible question about why the sky is blue, but for the bigger things. The heartbreaks. The tough decisions. The moments when they need a steady voice in a world that can feel overwhelming.
No one really tells you how much being a dad will change you. How it will rewire the way you see the world, how it will soften you and strengthen you at the same time. How it will make you feel like you are constantly failing and yet, somehow, getting the most important thing right.
It’s a lifetime membership to the greatest, hardest, most wonderful club in the world. And it’s worth every sleepless night.