What Happens to a Parent’s Dreams?
I never knew I’d still have dreams.
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I write letters to my son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, here are some good places to start.
Am I a Good Dad, or is the Bar Just Really Low?
A Gentle Heads Up: This week, I added a few pictures of us. I want Myles to see not only how happy we are now, but also the joy we shared back then.
2 Years Old
Dear Myles,
I thought that when I became a dad, I would no longer dream.
I romanticized being a father, your father, so much that I believed this would be it. I told myself that after finally conceiving the child we prayed for, after two years of waiting, this had to be the dream. What more could there be after meeting your mother and then having you?
But I was wrong. The dreams did not end there. In fact, the ones I put off—the ones I procrastinated, the ones buried like seeds I never watered—began to sprout. They made me feel like a child again. I began to ask what was possible, what is possible, who I was, and who I could still be.
I love being a father, your father, but I find myself missing the time I used to have for myself—the kind that did not involve planning everything around a child. I do not dream of labor. I miss getting off work and doing nothing. I miss watching TV with your mother until the sun came up. I miss how we used to stay out late, being slightly irresponsible, knowing we had work the next day. I miss how easily our bodies folded into one another, when the only thing we loved more than each other was the God who brought us together.
You know what I miss the most? Sleeping past 7 a.m. on the weekend. A friend visited recently and brought us all dinner, and when I asked him what time he wakes up on weekends, he said without hesitation, “When I want.” Truthfully, in that moment I wanted to ask him to leave, but that would have been no way to treat a guest who had just treated us all to dinner.
I miss time. I miss having it and doing what I wanted with it. Because once you get dropped off at school, it feels like the hour hand turns into Noah Lyles and the minute hand into Sha’Carri, racing to 4 p.m.—but then, somehow, it all slows down the moment we pick you up. I miss time for my dreams. And while you are everything we prayed for, I admit I have to remind myself to be present.
My heart knows that this time, the time of now, will be short and fleeting. I hear stories of people who wish their children would come see them more, who tell me that these years will pass, but my mind cannot fathom it right now. The sleep deprivation. The constant explanations of why you cannot eat chicken nuggets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the tantrums, oh the tantrums, make it hard not to look past today.
And I know your mother misses her dreams too. I miss watching her dream and strive for hers. And when I asked her about her dreams, she reminded me that this, the life we have now, the one where we used to pray for a child, you, used to be a dream too. I needed that reminder, it called me right back to those moments we used to cry for what we have now.
This week she sent me this poem I cannot stop thinking about. I’m sharing it here with you, because maybe it’ll find you one day the way it has found me.
It’s not my turn. by Kelcey It’s not my turn to go where I want, when I want. It’s not my turn to put my wants and needs first. It’s not my turn to get butterflies on a first date. It’s not my turn to plan a wedding. I’ve had my turn. It’s not my turn to leisurely enjoy my coffee with slow mornings. It’s not my turn to explore all of my interests and hobbies. It’s not my turn to spend my days as I please. It’s not my turn to spoil grandchildren. Hopefully, I’ll have my turn. It’s not my turn to take a Mediterranean vacation. It’s not my turn to maintain a luscious backyard oasis. It’s not my turn to have abs. It’s not my turn to binge-watch Netflix when I’ve had a hard week. Maybe one day I’ll have a turn…or, maybe not. But, it is my turn… It’s my turn to have some sleepless nights. It’s my turn for late-night snacks, so I don’t have to share. It’s my turn to have my clothes stretched out by little hands. It’s my turn to have fingerprints on the screen door. It’s my turn to have Cocomelon stuck in my head. It’s my turn to do laundry. So. Much. Laundry. It’s my turn to keep romance alive amidst the routine. But even more than that, It’s my turn to start family traditions. It’s my turn to memorize the perfect squishiness of chubby baby faces. It’s my turn to let a popsicle make anything better. It’s my turn to heal boo-boo’s with a kiss. It’s my turn to cuddle and rock. It’s my turn for park days and play dates. It’s my turn for first steps, first words, and first days of school. It’s my turn to earn my laugh lines and gray hairs. It’s my turn to soak up the beautiful, exhausting, magic of motherhood while the turn is still mine.
I’m not sure I’m ready to accept that it’s not my turn anymore. Maybe this makes me selfish. Maybe I still have some growing to do. I’ve never claimed to have it all figured out. Admittedly, I’ve been a little angry lately and a little less patient, because things aren’t getting easier—they’re getting harder. But I’m realizing some of that anger should be directed at myself. I think I’m grieving the time I used to have and realizing that when it was my turn, I didn’t always use it as wisely as I do now. When you have so little of it, you treat it so much more preciously
But something about you coming along makes me want to be better. I wonder if it’s possible that this turn gets to be ours. Maybe I’m still dreaming, and maybe I need to wake up.
I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Love,
Daddy
* I just love this little scoot you did at the end. [January 2025]
Shoutout time: A special thank-you to my high school English teacher for signing up as a paid subscriber. Thank you for pouring so much into me—you taught me not only how to write, but also how to pour into others.
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Let me know your thoughts:
When you became a parent, did you feel like your dreams had to pause, or did new ones start to take shape?
Do you remember a period of your life you miss — the freedom, the late nights, the “just for me” time? How do you honor that now?
How has seeing your child grow changed the way you view your own dreams and ambitions?
What’s the best-intentioned advice you’ve ever received as a parent that was… super annoying?
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The exhaustion is real. You are just trying to get through the day. How can you dream when you are SO TIRED. But things shift, babies grow, and there is a tiny bit more time before you start driving to hockey and lacrosse and dance, and ALL the things. Be kind to yourself Marc. Cut yourself some slack. I wish I could have been kinder to myself during those times, with the wisdom I now have today. We only know what we know when we know it. 💜
I wrote about something similar today. It is so important for us as parents to have dreams, hobbies and goals. I put some of hobbies on hold when my kids were younger and I wish instead of putting them on hold that I would have been more intentional with making time for my hobbies. But I will tell you even when the kids are grown or teens the sleep we had pre-kids just aint the same LOL.