Search history

If you scroll through my phone far enough,

you will find my early days as a father.

Not just in photos and videos.

In searches.

“Is this breathing normal?”

Typed in the dark.

With one eye open.

Holding my breath

while watching his.

Relief lasts a few minutes.

Then I check again.

“How long can a baby sleep without feeding?”

Translation:

Is this a blessing,

or am I about to mess this up?

I read three articles.

All disagree.

“Why is my baby making this sound?”

Every noise feels like a message.

Every message feels urgent.

Either way, I panic first.

“Normal baby poop color chart.”

No poetry here.

Just survival.

Couple of months in,

this is what fatherhood looks like.

Curiosity.

Checking.

Caring enough to ask.

Quiet love.

It looks like dim screens at 2 a.m.

Whispered searches.

Held breaths.

It looks like wanting to get it right

for someone who cannot yet tell you

if you are.

I do not have all the answers.

But my search history proves something.

I am trying.

Every night.

Every doubt.

Every question.

And for now,

that feels like a good place to start.

What I wake up for

The world didn’t pause after a month.

Emails still came in.

Bills still existed.

The clock kept moving

like nothing monumental had happened.

But I felt it.

The awe didn’t disappear.

It just learned how to live

alongside responsibility.

Alongside fatigue.

Alongside nights that blur into mornings.

A month in,

you realize something important.

Purpose doesn’t cancel exhaustion.

It coexists with it.

You still wake up tired.

Still second-guess yourself.

Still wish you had a clearer map

for what you’re doing.

The difference is this.

The weight has settled.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

But permanently.

The cries are more familiar now.

The routines more defined.

The silence, when it comes,

feels earned.

Every decision feels heavier.

Every absence more noticeable.

Every choice carries

someone else with it.

But now,

it’s quieter.

Becoming a father

didn’t make me fearless.

It made me intentional.

I don’t suddenly have all the answers.

I just know

who I’m showing up for.

And that changes

how you move through the day.

A month after

isn’t poetic like the first day.

It’s less announcement,

more adjustment.

It’s where love turns into habit.

Where responsibility becomes muscle memory.

Where showing up stops being an idea

and starts being a practice.

This is where the real work lives.

Not loudly.

Not perfectly.

But daily.

Now it's bigger than me

Today, I took on a new role.

No contract.

No salary.

No weekends off.

No exit clause.

Just a lifelong commitment

written quietly

on my heart.

It comes with a job description

no manual can fully explain.

24/7 responsibility.

Resource management.

Crisis handling.

Client care.

Values formation.

Leadership by example.

Every day.

Every night.

For the rest of my life.

The compensation isn’t monetary.

But the benefits

are beyond anything

I’ve ever known.

Because this role gives you

sleepless nights,

but it also gives you

mornings filled with purpose.

It tests your patience.

Your strength.

Your priorities.

And then it expands your heart

in ways you never imagined possible.

Today, I took on a role

that changes how I see everything.

How I work.

How I dream.

How I pray.

How I measure success.

I am now responsible

for more than just myself.

For someone who will watch me

before he listens to me.

Who will learn more from my actions

than from my words.

Someone who will look to me

for safety,

for honesty,

for love,

for direction.

Today, I became a father.

And suddenly,

the world feels bigger.

And more fragile.

And more meaningful.

All at once.

I know I will make mistakes.

I know I will get tired.

I know I will fall short.

But I also know

I will keep showing up.

Every day.

Because nothing matters more

than being worthy

of this trust.

Grateful beyond words

for this blessing.

And for my incredible wife.

For her strength.

Her grace.

Her courage.

For bringing our little miracle

into this world.

She is the quiet hero

of this story.

I am forever changed.

Forever humbled.

Forever thankful.

And ready

to grow into the man

my child deserves.

Bravest step back

For years, greatness followed a script.

Win.
Dominate.
Repeat.

And few embodied it better than Simone Biles.

By the time she arrived at the 2020 Tokyo Olympics,
she was not just the best in the world.

She was the standard.

Gold felt automatic.
Perfection, expected.

Then she made headlines again.

Not for winning.

For stepping back.

Because of something most people had never heard of:

The “twisties.”

In gymnastics, the twisties happen
when an athlete suddenly loses
their sense of position in the air.

You jump. You twist.
And for a split second,
your body forgets where it is.

Up feels like down.
Left feels like right.

At that level,
that confusion is dangerous.

One wrong landing can end a career.
Or worse.

That was what she was feeling.

Not fear. Not laziness.
Disorientation.
On the biggest stage in the world.

So she stopped.

Not because she lacked skill.
Not because she lacked preparation.

Because continuing would have been reckless.

Many didn’t understand.

We were used to heroes who push through.
Who hide pain.
Who sacrifice quietly.

Biles chose honesty.

She said, in effect:
“I’m not okay.
And that matters.”

She chose health over headlines.
Safety over spectacle.

That took more courage
than any routine.

Later, she returned.

Not to dominate.
To compete on her terms.

She still earned a medal.

But more importantly,
she changed the conversation.

She showed that strength is not endless sacrifice.
It is self-awareness.

That excellence is not self-destruction.
It is sustainability.

In a culture that glorifies burnout, she chose boundaries.
In a world that rewards silence, she chose truth.

Simone Biles did not lose greatness in Tokyo.
She expanded it.

She proved that legacy
is not only about what you achieve.

It is about what you are willing to protect.

Your body. Your mind. Your future.

That is not weakness.

That is modern strength.

That is greatness.