Little Breaths in the dark

The little breaths in the dark, they comfort me. The wind-down routine of snuggles before bed. A tired brain, a tired body, relaxed and ready for tonight's adventure. The little breaths, they connect me to the ground. He rests his head on my shoulder and sighs. One arm holding his stuffed bunny, the other grasping my back. We find rhythm in the dark, white noise fading in. I tell him how proud I am to be his dad, and we talk about the wonderful day we had. The breaths get louder, holding space and syncing with mine. Breathe in, breathe out. He drifts off to sleep. The little breaths in the dark, they ensure safety and calm. Lay him down in his crib, a gentle backrub and snores. Good night, my son. Another day ahead.

I remember finding out I was going to be a father like it was yesterday. I'd just finished my last session of the day and texted my wife to see if she wanted to go out for dinner. I got home, she hopped in the car, and we started chatting about our days and where we'd resolve the hunger. Before we took off, she asked about my day, and I looked over to see a combination of joy, fear, excitement, and exhaustion on her face. I put the car in reverse, checked my windows and the rearview camera, and started backing out of the driveway. We'd almost reached the road when she couldn't hold it in any longer:

"So, I took another test, and here are the results."

Brakes. Full stop. Shifted into drive, then park. Back to square one.

My eyes filled with tears and all I said was, "I'm going to be a dad." We mutually agreed that future baby news would be saved for 'Park' position only.

That day, for once in my life, I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel shame. I wasn't sad or anxious. My body was just filled with joy — to know I had a chance to raise a child with the love of my life, to have a family of my own, to pass on the lessons mine taught me. To cradle them in times of sadness and fear, to build memories together, to guide them toward being kind and respectful. To know they are loved, and that they always have a home.

The months leading up to our son's birth were full of gleeful anticipation, some unsettling fear, and a whole lot of gratitude. I watched one of the most badass experiences of my life: my wife carrying our son. The overwhelm and the joy, her mind and body adapting to grow and nurture, the pain, the nausea, the kicks, the struggle. To go through all of that and deliver a beautiful, sweet baby human — I'll never forget it. She carried herself with grace, led the charge to our due date, and I happily joined her for a ride that changed my life. I wouldn't be the dad I am today without her: a trusted safe place to talk through the ups and downs, to problem-solve with, and to high-five at the end of a 45-minute tantrum. Women are badass. Shout it louder for the people in the back.

My confidence was high in the beginning. My skills didn't match. We prepared well, had everything ready for delivery day, and then he was here. BAM! Sit down, sir. Humbled.

The early days were tough. We had a little cuddle-filled human we were fully responsible for. We were figuring out how we'd each find some sleep, we'd brought home a puppy so he and our son could grow up together, and I'd decided to start my own business. Between my history of mental health struggles years earlier and the chaos of those first months, we'd gotten very used to operating in chaos — even thriving in it to push ourselves — and that first year was the hardest of my life. Am I good enough as a dad? How do I provide for him and my wife while chasing a dream? How do I adjust to this fully realized, multi-sensory overwhelm? How do I support my wife so she doesn't kill me? How do I switch off from being a therapist when I get home?

If I'm being completely honest, it took me four to six months to climb out of the initial slump after he was born. I was present, but my mind drifted constantly — preserving the business, growing the dream, providing for him. It felt like freeze. Wanting to do everything but paralyzed by the thought of doing something wrong, unsure how to best help him, losing my regulation some days. I thought I was failing, and I truly believed it. Anxiety about routines. Panic when he was sick. Depression about work and not meeting what I imagined a good dad should be. Shame settling in nicely, pushing a constant cycle of numbing with food and sleep.

But there's a realization that eventually finds you in a deep slump: it really does just take one step at a time. One project. One task. Breathe in, breathe out. Plan. Ask for help. Commit to being more present. Be proud of the steps you've taken, give yourself grace in the moments of self-doubt, and carry on.

To the married dads, single dads, widower dads, separated and divorced dads, and the dads who have lost a child — if you've struggled with your mental health, or you're struggling right now, I see you, and I feel it most days too. Tired. Overwhelmed. Nervous system shot from long days at work, less in the tank than years before. Trying to meet everyone's needs while figuring out how to name your own.

What's become so evident looking back is that we're not expected to have it all figured out right away. Shit, I still feel like I'm floundering most days. Parenthood isn't about getting it right all the time — and you won't. But the more you work with your partner, your supports, your family and friends, the better they know how to show up for you.

We sit in silence as men because we're expected to be strong, to work hard, to chase money and authority — so speaking up feels like the hardest thing in the world. About our mental health. About how we numb out in the evenings. About sitting in the shame of not feeling good enough. It's vulnerable. It "shows weakness," or whatever gender-role prerequisite has been handed to us for years.

Let the walls down when it feels right. Try opening up to someone you trust — it doesn't have to be your partner first. Pick a moment when you're calm, out of the anger or irritation, and talk about what's been hardest and how it's been affecting you. Then make a plan together, with a mutual understanding that it might not look perfect right away, but you're committed to trying.

And please, please know this: your children see you. They love you. They watch what you do and listen (some of the time) to what you say. I know it can feel like a massive undertaking, especially early on — but they need you, big guy. These dark days will pass. The more you keep showing up despite the thoughts in your head, the more your kids learn that you show up even when it's hard. That's where resilience is built, and it transfers to young brains. So take care of yourself. Stay connected to community when you're struggling. Reconnect to the things that bring you joy. Know that millions of other dads have struggled exactly like this. Let's show our little ones it's okay to show up for ourselves the way we show up for everyone else — that we can break old generational patterns, that real strength can come from vulnerability, and that self-care is part of it.

One step, one day, one task at a time. You're never alone. You are loved. You are important.

I'm still muddling through this too. I'm not perfect, and I'm learning every day how to combat the voices telling me all the terrible things. But the lessons below, the patterns I've owned up to, and the hard talks have led me somewhere I'm proud of — as a father and a husband. On this Father's Day, here are a few words of wisdom from a dad who keeps welcoming failure as another lesson.

I can't show up for my kids if I'm dysregulated.

If you're struggling to stay calm through the week, pick one thing to start: meditation, journaling, gratitude, breathwork (Insight Timer is free; Calm and Headspace are great too), some kind of movement you can ease into, sleep, connection. Sign up for counselling. Connect with friends weekly and with your partner after bedtime. Find auditory strategies like noise-cancelling earbuds. Just pick one, try it, and see if it quiets the noise for a bit. If it does, that's a tool worth keeping. With over ten years as a pediatric and mental health OT, working with hundreds of kids and adults, I can tell you these don't work for everyone — but trying a few gives you a real shot at finding the ones you can lean on. The more I work on my own wellbeing, the more capacity I have to show up for the people who matter most.

My partner needs time for themselves, just like the time I get for me.

What I've learned from years as an OT, and from listening to my wife and reflecting on my own patterns, is that after birth, mothers are so often expected to slot straight into caretaker, cook, cleaner, anchor. The childcare, the schedules, the medications, the appointments — it piles up. They get tired too, probably far more than we do. So if you're struggling in your marriage or as a new parent, connect with your partner. When you're both up for it, keep it calm, have a snack together, and talk it out. It's vulnerable, and admitting our faults feels uncomfortable — but we're all human. The more I leaned into that discomfort, the easier it got. Shifting toward real equality in our marriage, in the areas I wasn't showing up, made me feel more connected to my wife, hopefully took some weight off her, and made us better.

Children are sponges of wonder and curiosity.

Play is a child's main occupation. It's where they learn about sharing, shapes, sizes, stacking and crashing — and it's an invitation into their world. Early on, my capacity was shot. I was stuck in freeze, exhausted from playing with kids all day, so when I got home there was nothing left in the tank. The pediatric OT couldn't play with his own son. Go figure. But once I started taking better care of myself — daily walks with him, making the gym a priority, noise-filtering earbuds to soften the shrill of crying so I could still engage — I found my way back. He has this little red wagon he loves to show off around town, which also got me fresh air and some cardio. I love sports, so I leaned into those with him. My wife and I built routines and plans for the overwhelming days: talk it out, don't take it personally, breathe, regroup, rejoin. And through all that adjusting, I landed on one conclusion: my son didn't need me to worry about the activities or whether I was playing the "right" way. He just needed to be with me, and for me to be present. He needed Dada. The moment I made that shift, I could finally show up — for myself, and most importantly, for him.

Last week I took my son out to a Blue Heron reserve and river trail here in BC. Mama was having a day to herself, so it was Kell and Dada's turn to find some "wogs" (frogs) and "ucks" (ducks). Mini-me had his Lightning McQueen bucket hat on and Dada had his Rusteze snapback on tight. He found leaves, saw plenty of ducks, heard deep croaks in the weeds, and walked most of the trail (mostly from up on my shoulders). We walked for about an hour, talked about trees and the forest, and I shared memories of going places with my own dad as a kid. As we headed back from a snack and a chat, an older gentleman stopped us and said, "You know, man, I was watching you and your son come around the corner, and it made me miss how much I used to do this with my kids. They're all grown up now, but I used to take them down here all the time. They had goldfish crackers back then — I think they have more flavours now. I just miss it, man, and it makes me happy to see this."

Happy Father's Day to the men in my family, to my friends near and far, and most importantly, to my dad in heaven. I hope you get some time for yourselves today — time to connect with your kids and friends, eat good food, and kick back to take it all in. My son is the greatest gift I've ever received, and I'm lucky to still be here to share him with my wife. He's fun. He loves people, loves laughing, and loves making others laugh. He wakes up yelling DADA, loves cuddles and adventures in nature. He loves his trucks, tractors, monster trucks, and magnetic tiles, and he's fiercely into his independence. He's obsessed with food — berries, yogurt, crackers. We watch sports together, and he's starting to want to play them. Lord help us. He likes holding my hand in and out of stores, and being up on my shoulders or in my arms. He likes connection, being by my side. He's kind and helpful. He's polite, stubborn, and quite frankly, he's my sassy little bestie. To live this life — knowing that every morning and every night I have a little man who depends on me, who loves me unconditionally, and whom I get to watch grow into a wonderful young man — well, I'm a rich man. I'm proud to be a dad, and proud of how far I've come.

One step at a time, my friends. We'll get our dad black belts one day.