I didn’t Sign Up for This (Bit)

There’s a strange kind of comedy in how thoroughly unprepared you can feel even after doing everything to prepare.

Prenatal classes. Nappies stacked floor to ceiling. Those little muslins folded just so. Maybe a baby first aid course. Maybe meditation apps. You go in wanting to be the ready dad. The capable one. The calm presence.

And then you’re in a hospital room, adrenaline running hot, and nothing you’ve learned is helping. Or you’re holding a child who won’t stop crying, whose body is hot with illness, and you’ve been sitting in a plastic waiting room chair for four hours, stomach tight, wondering if you’re overreacting or underreacting—and either way, what the hell are you supposed to do?

Or you’re arguing with your partner—really arguing, the kind where both of you say things you never thought you’d say—over something that started with a bottle not being sterilised. And beneath the words is something heavier: exhaustion, fear, pressure. No one told you parenthood would make you question your relationship. Not like this.

Or you’re crouched on the floor of a soft play centre, pretending to eat imaginary pasta for the twentieth time, while your toddler tells you “you’re the baby now.” You look up and realise you’d be embarrassed if anyone you knew saw you like this. You laugh—but not all of it’s funny.

These moments aren’t the highlight reel. But they’re real.

You can love your kids more than anything and still feel trapped sometimes. You can want to be a great dad and still feel like you’re failing. These moments can drain joy, energy, even your sense of self. But they’re also where the deeper stuff lives: growth that only comes from being cracked open a bit. It doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human.

No one tells you that this is fatherhood too. The mess, the fear, the ridiculousness, the moments of pure survival. They’re not the bits you signed up for—but they’re the bits that teach you who you are. And who you’re becoming.

These moments can (and often do) sap joy and motivation. But they can also be the places where something deeper grows: resilience, patience, humour, humility, and a kind of love that’s not about magic moments, but about showing up when you’d rather not. These are the hidden muscles of fatherhood, the ones no one shows you how to train.

It’s because these moments are unexpected that they change us.

You can’t prepare for being brought to your edge. And that’s what makes it real growth. These parts of fatherhood confront your ego, your identity, your imagined competence (by the way, it was broccoli that got me thinking about this). They undo the polished version of yourself you thought would walk into fatherhood clean and ready.

And yet—this undoing is not the end. It’s the beginning of something truer. Not the father you thought you’d be. But the one your child will remember. The one who stayed, humbled but present. The one who learned something from the parts no one warned you about.