i know i’m only twenty-one, and maybe it’s too early to be thinking about fatherhood, but i do. not all the time, just often enough that it no longer feels like a passing thought. it’s become a quiet part of me. it isn’t about babies or birthdays or picture frames. it’s about the feeling. the presence. the kind of love that softens you when the world is trying to make you hard. the kind that shifts your sense of time, because suddenly you’re living through someone else’s laughter, someone else’s tired little hands, someone else’s sleep. i think that’s the kind of love i want to grow into.
lately, i’ve been tired. the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with rest. i’ve been pouring myself into building something, fragile, sacred, honest, something that might one day hold me the way i’ve been holding it. my work isn’t just a dream. it’s a mirror. it reflects back everything: my fear, my hunger, my ache, my history. i wake up and disappear into it, sometimes before i’ve even brushed my teeth. i lose days, weeks, whole pieces of myself to this thing i’m making. and it does feel holy, yes. but it also feels lonely. it’s hard to build and still be. it’s hard to hold a dream with both hands and still reach for real people, with their own deep oceans.
i’ve met people along the way. people who felt like maybe. like almost. like something beautiful trying to begin. we connect — over books, over music, over the way we both stay up too late trying to understand the ache. but it never lasts. maybe i’m too closed off when i’m breaking. maybe they are. maybe we both are. maybe we’re all just scared of being seen mid-collapse. we want to be understood, but we keep hiding the very pieces that would let someone love us. maybe it’s ego — not the loud kind, but the kind that comes from old wounds. the kind that whispers, “don’t need too much,” because once, needing meant pain. once, softness meant consequence.
i think about how absurd it is, how much we carry in silence. how many unsaid things we store in our chests like letters we’ll never send. how ego turns into armor. how needing less is treated like strength. how quickly we run from what might save us. how often we mistake caution for incompatibility. we all want to be held, seen in the quiet places we hide. but so few of us know how to be vulnerable without apology. i don’t either. sometimes i break down in private, turn off my phone, pretend i’m fine. not to lie. just to make it through another hour without falling apart.
and still, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the reaching, the thought returns.
fatherhood.
not the performative kind. not the kind you post about. the kind that smells like early morning and coffee and baby wipes. the kind that looks like mismatched socks and sleep-stained couches and dogs snoring at your feet. the kind that tastes like burnt toast because your child wanted to help and you let them, because love sometimes looks like patience and charred bread. the kind of fatherhood that slows down time and fills it with meaning. not in milestones, but in the quietness between. in sleepy eyes and small fingers and endless questions. i want that.
i want a home that breathes. full of warmth and fur and chaos. dogs that bark at the wind. cats that sleep in laundry baskets. cows named after old poets. bees we protect and bats we don’t chase away. i want to build it with someone who feels like steady magic. someone i’ll carry through the ordinary. my wife — i don’t know her yet, but i see pieces of her. in her dark eyes. in the way her mouth curls when she’s trying not to laugh. in that single strand of hair that always falls across her face, the one i’ll tuck back just to touch her. she might hate mornings. so i’ll bring her coffee anyway. or tea, if that’s what her body needs. because i’ll love the way she smiles into the cup like it’s a secret. because to me, she will be one.
i want to give her everything. not with grand gestures, but in the quiet, relentless ways that say, “i see you.” in remembering how she likes her toast. in holding her hand when she’s too tired to ask. in learning her grief. her laughter. her silences. in sharing the weight of it all without rushing any of it away. i want to laugh with her when we’re too tired to keep our eyes open. i want to hold her in the in-between. and one day, maybe, we’ll look at each other and say, “let’s do it. let’s have a child.”
and i don’t know how we’ll get there. i don’t know if we’ll make one, or if we’ll find one meant for us in some other way. maybe we’ll adopt. maybe we’ll talk about what it means to build a family in the most intentional, gentle way. whatever we choose, it’ll be mutual. it’ll be soft and steady and honest. and if we do carry life, if it ever comes to that, i will never let her walk through that pain alone. i will be beside her through every stretch, every change, every fear. i’ll talk to the child even before they arrive. whisper dreams into the growing silence. promise them the world before they can even understand what it means to be held.
and i’ll be scared. of course i will. scared of failing. of getting it wrong. but i’ll do it anyway.
i want to be the kind of father mine is. not perfect. not loud. not without shadows. but present in the way that matters. the kind of man who fixes a door before you even notice it’s broken. who remembers your patterns even when you think you’re hiding. who watches without hovering. who asks, “you ate?” like it’s the only question in the world that matters. that question still makes me feel safe. like no matter how far i go, there’ll be a light on somewhere. a quiet place where i’m still known. that’s what i want to carry forward. not perfection. but presence. unwavering. real.
and my mum, god.
she is fire. she is grace and fury and the kind of tenderness that turns to wrath when someone she loves is hurt. she raised me with fierce love, in meals and medicines and reminders. she taught me that love isn’t always soft. sometimes, love looks like staying when it’s hard. like choosing over and over, even when you’re tired. i was also raised by the women around her. my aunts. my cousins. my friends’ mothers. they taught me softness and steel. we played house with dolls, built worlds inside our own. maybe i was always building homes, even back then.
i was a shy kid. still am. quiet. observant. half-lost in books while the world moved loudly around me. i felt everything, deeply, completely. i still do. i don’t need to be the loudest in the room. i’d rather listen. rather feel the unspoken. i can change a room if i want to, but i don’t. not yet. not until i understand what it needs. because presence isn’t volume. it’s attention.
my dad held things in. i let them through. we’re both steady, just in different ways. i fall apart sometimes, then stitch myself back up. i let love wreck me, remake me. and that, too, is strength, not the kind that never breaks, but the kind that knows how to rise again. i remember things people forget — how someone stirs their tea, how they pause before saying something that hurts, how their smile flickers when they say they’re okay. maybe because i grew up in quiet. maybe because love, for me, was always something felt in silence.
and my hair, always in my face. wild, untamed. sometimes i part it down the middle just to remind myself i can change things. i rarely fix it. unless someone special is near. maybe one day, she’ll smile at the mess of it. and i’ll use it as an excuse to touch her cheek. to tuck that strand behind her ear. slow. soft. the way someone once did for me when they loved me. and maybe we won’t say anything in that moment, but we’ll both understand.
and when i laugh, really laugh, it’s loud and whole and rare. but it’s real. and lately, i’ve been learning to let that part of me show. to not hide my joy. because despite everything, i love this life i’m building. it isn’t always kind. but it’s mine. built from grief and hope and little triumphs. and sometimes, when the sun hits just right, when a dog runs up for no reason, when a stranger smiles like they mean it — i feel it. the soft hum of “i’m okay.” the quiet knowing that this life is worth showing up for.
and if someday, a small voice calls me “dad,” i think i’ll stop whatever i’m doing. even if it’s just coffee in the morning stillness. i’ll feel my whole body soften. the mug still warm in my hand. the dog curled at my feet. the cat blinking from the windowsill. maybe outside, the cow will stir. a bird might tap the glass. and the world will feel a little more alive, like it knows something sacred just happened.
i’ll hear that voice again, cracking through sleep and sunlight, “dad?”, and i’ll set the cup down like it’s holy. because in that moment, everything is. the hallway will creak. the dog’s tail will thump. and when i reach them — sleep-warm, messy-haired, i’ll kneel, arms open, and say, “i’ve been waiting for you”. and i’ll mean it. with everything in me. with every ache that ever made me wonder if this love was meant for me. with every lonely night and prayer i never said aloud. this child will fall into my arms. and i won’t just be a man anymore. i’ll be a home.
and there, in the doorway, my partner, eyes soft with sleep, that one familiar strand of hair falling across her face, the one i’ll always tuck behind her ear just to see her smile.
and around us, our wild, gentle family — the bees we’ll try to raise, the rescued bat that might still visit, the goats, the chickens, the worm she’ll insist on keeping. and whatever else she falls in love with, we’ll bring it home. if she wants to keep a snail from a rainy walk, we will. if she wants to carry back a crooked painting from a street artist in a city we barely remember, we will. if she sees a dog too shy to come close while we’re on holiday in another country, we’ll drive across borders to bring him home. no questions. no logic. just love. her heart will have room for everything, and mine will stretch just to hold all of it with her.
this is what fatherhood will taste like, in the future i’m building. not just the coffee. not just the name. but the quiet, sacred joy of having made something full of love — something that finally, finally, feels like home.
This is soft and this is real. I could picture everything as I absorbed this piece.
You'll make an awesome father and partner some day!
Loved the details! I felt so good reading this, thank youu. I am almost the same age as you, and I think of this a lot. Some think I'm not ambitious enough, but I really want to do it all. I want to build my career but also a family. I am a woman, and I really love the fact that I am. I want motherhood!