The Privilege of Fatherhood

However, unlike jumping into freezing water where the shock of the cold brings instant breathtaking clarity, my journey into fatherhood was more a fog that crept up slowly, such that I only recognised the haze once it started to clear years later. To this day I’m still unpacking experiences long past and finding new understanding and significance. 

We lost our first child to miscarriage in a surreal passage of time that I still only recall through fragmented vignettes of memory. I barely even remember my wife falling pregnant before our unborn child was lost. I have cinematic recollections of me wandering deserted hospital halls at night searching for her, following some poorly understood post-miscarriage procedure. Then memories of home and my love, lost in her grief, while I stood in the background, isolated and alone with my confusion.

It is only in hindsight that I can start to understand the significance of that miscarriage. For me at the time it was merely one more in a series of abstract medical occurrences that surrounded our attempts to start a family. My wife had been disappointed to not fall pregnant immediately upon trying and here we were once again, still not pregnant. To me nothing had changed apart from my wife who, I much later came to understand, was mourning the death of our child. Parenthood was strange, unfamiliar and quietly threatening territory and I had landed without so much as a map.

The arrival of our happy and healthy first-born one year later remains to this day the single most disruptive event of my life. From the moment he was born I was changed in ways I did not expect. I was smitten with this tiny, warm bundle that filled a part of me I did not know existed, while at the same time struggled heavily with the feeling of having been abandoned by my wife, my best friend and companion, as she blissfully immersed herself in motherhood, leaving little time for me. The first six months were particularly hard as I struggled to find my place in our new family. My wife meanwhile had found support elsewhere through her large family, close friends and welcoming mothers’ group. 

By the time our son was six months old I was slowly beginning to adjust to my new place in the world. I was coming to the realisation that while my wife’s role was to support our child, my role was to support her. This newfound understanding helped give me some small purpose and direction from one day to the next, as well as an emerging sense of connection and belonging within our nascent tribe.

I was also surprised to feel the first welcome glimmers of connection with my newborn son, as he slowly became aware of my existence, starting to share with me the grins, play, and treasured, soul bonding gaze so unique to infants. These precious early experiences guided me as I slowly readjusted my focus in life, coming to prioritise time with my family and their well-being above everything else. 

As our small tribe grew from one, to two, and then to three over the span of four short years, the fog of fatherhood grew thicker. The usual pressures of life and work were compounded by the pressures of our happy, busy young family. My predominant impression of this period is one of missing out. Of being involved, but slightly to one side. Of events that should have been meaningful or fun, but of being too tired and harried to realise this at the time. 

As with driving through a fog where the world appears to shrink to a radius of mere meters around, my world had shrunk to contain only the five of us. Everything beyond was a blur, invisible or irrelevant before rushing into view and then away again into the mist. It was during this period that I came to learn the importance of ‘leaning in’ with my wife, and that I wasn’t in this alone as my identity slowly (and sometimes painfully) transformed into that of a father. 

I came to recognize that when things felt hardest it was usually because I was conflicted; unknowingly torn between my young family and other demands. When I was able to see this, and then lean further in to my wife and children, things would inevitably get easier. Although our journeys were our own, we were travelling the same road, and together we were able to grow as a team, parenting our boys safely along the road even if we couldn’t see what was ahead through the fog. 

In hindsight my first three years of fatherhood were relatively uneventful, although of course I didn’t realise this at the time. The following years were to truly test me as our family motto became “learning to love rollercoasters”. Over this period of time, we would welcome our youngest son who arrived pre-labelled with Down Syndrome (a true blessing in disguise), bury him four years later after three harrowing weeks in ICU, whilst also successfully seeing our eldest through a treatment protocol for Leukemia. 

Many days it would take every ounce of strength I could muster simply to hang on, as the rollercoaster that was life threatened to toss me aside. More times than I can remember, the only thing that got me out of bed was my commitment to my family and the need to keep the wheels of life turning; dropping kids to school, hospital visits, work. I became accomplished at simply putting one foot in front of the other and grinding through what needed to be done, whatever the price I would later come to pay. On the occasions I did let myself feel the gravity of our situation, I would collapse under the weight of it. 

It was during this time I was startled to realise how many people cared about me and were there to help. I came to understand that they had been there all along, but I had been blind to it. Every time someone had asked how I was, or offered support, I had automatically dismissed it as a social pleasantry, not a genuine offer. I could never understand why anyone would want to spend time with me, let alone go out of their way to support me through these dark times. Now on my worst days when I could barely bring myself to stand, I would find myself brought to quiet tears by neighbours mowing my lawn unbidden, friends ferrying my children to and from school, or simply sharing a hug and a tear when I needed it most. I had watched enviously as my wife was supported by others through these times, oblivious to the fact that the same support was there for me - I only had to accept it. 

Despite the curve-balls that life has thrown, above all fatherhood has been the greatest gift I could imagine. It has allowed me to give thanks to my own elders by leaning on their lessons and teachings. It has provided the opportunity to break cycles, disrupt damaging patterns of behaviour and improve on generations past. It has taught me patience. It has prompted me to reconsider my priorities. Fatherhood has shown me grief and a love so pure it almost sings like crystal, and it has forced me to reflect deeply on myself through the mirror of my children.

Fatherhood is not always an easy path to follow. It can bring joy, growth and fulfilment but it can also require immense courage to allow ourselves to let go of who we were, and accept the privilege of fatherhood.