What I Wish I Knew About Being a Dad Before I Became One

A raw reflection on fatherhood, the lessons that hit late, and how love changes with time.

I used to think I’d know when I was ready.
That there’d be some moment, standing in a hospital room, holding a baby for the first time, when I’d feel it click: I’m a dad now. I’ve got this.

But it didn’t happen that way.

Becoming a dad wasn’t one moment. It was a thousand quiet ones. Many of them I didn’t even recognize until they were already behind me. And if I’m honest, there’s still a part of me that’s learning how to do this: how to show up, love well, and not let fear do the parenting for me.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me back then.

Love Doesn’t Always Feel Like a Hallmark Card

I thought love would be obvious. Soft and glowing. I thought I’d feel it rush in like a wave and carry me through every tantrum, every sleepless night.

But sometimes love feels like fatigue. Like putting on boots at 2 a.m. to search for a lost stuffy in the car. Or keeping your voice steady when what you really want to do is yell. It’s not always pretty or poetic, but it’s steady. And it grows in the doing. Although you don’t always realize it in the moment.

Control Is a Comfort We Learn to Let Go Of

Before kids, control made me feel capable. Organized. Like I could manage life. After kids? That illusion shattered.

Schedules get torn up. Emotions spill over. Plans change without warning. I’ve learned (and am still learning) that clinging to control creates distance. But connection only shows up when we get a little messy, a little real.

Life can feel like a house of cards sometimes. A beautiful, messy, imperfect house of cards. If you’re a single parent? You’re constantly scrambling to keep whatever’s left of the foundation intact.

You Can’t Fix Everything, and That’s Not a Failure

There were so many times I wanted to fix things. Their sadness. Their self-doubt. Their disappointment in a result.

But the more I tried to “fix,” the more I missed what they actually needed: space to feel. A witness to their experience. Someone who wasn’t rushing to make it all better. My sadness. My self-doubt. My disappointment in a result.

Being a dad taught me that listening is more listening and healing than advice. And presence is more powerful than solutions.

Who You Are Matters More Than What You Do

I chased involvement like it was proof of love: coaching too many teams, giving my time and attention. That’s what I could control.

But years later, the things my kids remember most? The quiet rides back from the hockey arena. The weird voices I used. The way I showed up when I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t have the financial means, so I made up for it with my time and presence.

Our kids absorb our being more than our doing. Who we are when no one’s watching. That’s what stays with them.

Your Own Healing Shapes Theirs

This one’s hard to say, but it’s true: fatherhood mirrored back the parts of me I hadn’t dealt with. My anger. My self-doubt. My old stories from childhood that I thought I’d buried.

I couldn’t teach emotional regulation when I hadn’t learned it myself. I couldn’t model softness when I was still armoured up.

Doing my own work; quietly, awkwardly, over time, became the best gift I could give them. Not perfection. Just effort. Growth. The willingness to own my shit.

You’ll Miss Moments Even When You’re Right There

I wish I could go back and slow down. I was in the room, yes. But sometimes I was three steps ahead, planning dinner, thinking about work, checking my phone.

Time plays tricks on us. It moves quietly until suddenly it doesn’t. Now I’d give anything for just one more unhurried Tuesday afternoon. The mad dash from school, to making sure they were fed and off to the rink. I miss those days, only because I felt I had their attention.

Today, they’re being pulled in different directions. But they still make time for their dad.

These days, I try to pause more. To say, “Tell me more,” or “help me understand.” instead of “Okay, let’s go.” It’s not perfect. But it’s something. And some days, it’s all I’ve got left in the tank.

What I’d Say to the Dad I Was Then

You’re not failing.

You’re learning.

Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s hanging a wet towel left on the floor, or the way you soften your voice after a hard day.

They don’t need you to be the strongest, smartest, most prepared. They need to know you’ll keep showing up. That your love isn’t a reward they have to earn.

And What I’d Tell a New Dad Today

You will doubt yourself.

You will mess up.

But none of that disqualifies you.

The fact that you care this much means something. It means everything, actually. Keep trying. Keep learning. And let go of the idea that there’s some perfect version of fatherhood you’re supposed to arrive at.

There isn’t. There’s just today. And how you show up for it.

Where MentorWell Comes In

Part of what I wish I’d known is that I didn’t have to do it all alone.

There were moments when I wasn’t the person my child needed, not because I didn’t love them, but because I didn’t understand what they were carrying. I couldn’t always see the weight beneath their silence. Or decode the real meaning behind “I’m fine.”

That’s why I believe in The MentorWell.

It’s not about replacing parents. It’s about reinforcing them. Giving teens someone else to turn to; a mentor, a guide, a witness, when emotions get tangled and communication gets tough. I didn’t know something like that existed back then. I wish I had.

Because sometimes, love looks like saying, “I can’t be everything for you. But I’ll make sure you have what you need.”

That’s what The MentorWell offers. A bridge. A lifeline. A place where teens can breathe, speak, and grow, while we keep showing up beside them.

Final Thought: You Don’t Have to Get It All Right

Fatherhood will stretch you. Break you open. And often, humble you so hard it knocks the wind out of your chest.

But it will also show you love, real, messy, transformational love, in ways nothing else can.

So if you’re a dad in the thick of it, just know: you’re not behind. You’re becoming.

And you’re not alone. It’s supposed to be messy sometimes.