I started this essay twice before finally finishing it this time. Each time I started, I gave it a different title, even though I usually choose a title only after I am done with a piece. Looking back, I think I kept changing the title because my inner world could not find the right words to explain what it felt and how it had changed. Or maybe I was simply rushing. I wanted to finish the essay, close the notebook, and get it over with so I can tell myself - "you completed a task".
Every time I opened my notebook, I could see the unfinished draft staring at me with glazed eyes. A few hundred words sitting there, quietly judging me. Reminding me that I had become a starter and not a finisher. Looking back, that was a fair description of my state of affairs.
It was hard to accept because I knew how much I had changed since becoming a father. I used to write, build, and finish things. I spent much of my free time working on side projects, publishing my thoughts, and making things that did not need to exist until I decided to create them. Now, whenever I try to do something that could be called "work" outside the scope of my full-time job, I rarely complete it. Sometimes I stop before I have even started.
Starting has become harder because I already know how difficult it will be to finish. It hurts in the way a dull pain in your back might hurt. It is always somewhere in the background, but it becomes noticeable when you stand up or try to move in a way your body is no longer used to. It is a dull and subtle pain for which the only remedy, I think, is acceptance.
Acceptance of the breaking point that divides your life into a "before" and an "after." I call that point fatherhood.
The first time I started this essay, I titled it "Becoming a Parent." I wanted to write about everything that had accumulated inside me over the past four years. I still cannot believe I have been a parent for that long.
When my first child was born, I kept a notebook of my running thoughts. Whenever I noticed something new or felt an emotion I had never experienced before, I would pause, take out the notebook, and try to describe it. After my second child was born, I slowly forgot about those notes. I am not sure whether it was because I became much busier or because I no longer had enough mental energy to make space for new thoughts.
With two toddlers, the household often feels like it is in a state of constant fire. There is always something to do. Someone needs to eat, sleep, get dressed, use the bathroom, find a missing toy, or recover from a crisis that began because the wrong cup was placed on the table. You either work or you parent.
And yet, the joy of fatherhood is indescribable.
A small moment can suddenly become a big one. It can light something inside you and give you a spark of energy to keep going. The love gives you so much strength that being tired becomes secondary. You become so driven to take care of your children that, for a moment, nothing else matters. Things that you once spent years thinking about begin to make sense. Questions about meaning, love, fear, and responsibility come together inside you.
You also realize or maybe recognize there is no great love without worry. At first, the worry feels heavy (as I'm sure any parent knows what that worry is). Then you slowly learn to live with it. You accept it as part of loving someone this much. Once you stop fighting it, the worry settles within its normal boundaries. It does not disappear, but it becomes part of you.
Fatherhood also changes your relationship with time. Being a parent without discipline around time can quickly create a difficult life. I think this is why many people become extremely structured after having children. There is almost no way around it because your time, and much of the way you live, is dictated by small humans. I say "much of" and not "all of" because you still have choices. But your choices now exist inside a much smaller space.
The good news is that routine and structure are not only good for parents. They are good for children too. Kids need to know what comes next, at least during most of the week. A little chaos can be good for them. I believe it can make life fun and teach them to adjust. But constant chaos makes them miserable, which eventually makes you and your partner miserable too.
You also need a routine because you still have to work full-time. Working full-time while raising young children requires both physical and mental discipline. The difficult part is that your routine is not entirely yours. It depends on whether your children sleep, eat, get sick, wake up early, or decide that today is the day they will reject every reasonable request you make. You create the routine, but they control whether it survives.
As finding time became harder recently, my thoughts slowly moved toward work and my relationship with it. The even earlier version of this essay was called "You and Your Work." I wanted to write about how your relationship with work changes after you have children.
For most of my adult life, I was someone who believed deeply in work. I thought work defined a person's identity and worth. I spent much of my free time building things, shipping side projects, and writing about them publicly. I hoped to achieve what I saw other people achieving: financial independence, recognition, status, and the feeling that I had made something important. I thought work was my calling. Much of my identity was built around it.
I sometimes wondered why everyone was not like me. Working hard seemed like such an obvious way to create meaning, have an impact, and make your existence in the world worthwhile. Maybe it was the right belief for me at the time. It brought me to where I am today.
But I am so different now. Something has changed in me, organically and perhaps even chemically. I cannot fully explain it. I have learned to enjoy my life as it is instead of constantly fighting the feeling that enough is not enough. That change began when the center of my life moved from me to my family.
Children give you perspective. The job you have as a professional becomes smaller next to the most meaningful job in your life: raising them. I cannot fully explain why this happens. It is almost impossible to fight against the instant priority that parenthood receives once the journey begins. Your children do not ask to become the center of your world. They simply arrive, and your world reorganizes itself around them.
This does not mean that work stops mattering. In some ways, I have become more ambitious. But my ambition is different now. It is calmer and more clear-minded. I know why I want to work, what kind of work matters to me, and how far I am willing to push myself. This does not mean I have lost my drive. In many ways, I have become more ambitious. But now my ambition has limits. I know how far I want to push myself because I know what the cost is.
Before having children, I was already an adult. I had a good job, a great wife, and responsibilities. But becoming a father made adulthood feel real in a different way. Now there are two small humans watching how I act, how I react, how I treat people, and whether I show up. They depend on me, but they are also changing me.
Maybe that is what fatherhood is. Becoming an adult, again.
August 2026, Paris, France