I don't think I realized it at the time, but somewhere along the way I had started seeing my own needs as something that competed with being a good father. If I wanted time to create, I felt selfish. If I wanted time alone, I felt selfish. If I wanted to spend an evening working on one of my projects instead of doing something "productive" around the house, I felt selfish. Eventually, I started acting as if the best version of a father was someone who slowly disappeared behind the role. I don't think that was sustainable for very long. Looking back, I think it was one of the biggest misconceptions I carried. Because the parts of me I was trying to protect weren't taking anything away from my son. They were part of what made me feel alive. I just hadn't figured out yet that the two could eventually strengthen each other.

Learning to tell the difference between escape and recovery. I used to be convinced that my desire to get away was a sign that something was wrong with my life. If I was dreaming about a weekend alone, more freedom, or a break from my responsibilities, I assumed it meant I had chosen the wrong path. The small shift came when I started seeing those feelings differently. Sometimes the urge to escape isn't really about escape. Sometimes it's simply a sign that you're exhausted. I think I spent years treating how tired and overwhelmed I felt as information about my life, when it was often just information about my energy level. That may sound like a small distinction. For me, it changed a lot.

One of the hardest parts of becoming a parent, for me, was that the things that used to give my life meaning suddenly became much harder to pursue. Making films became harder, of course. There was less time, less energy, more responsibilities. That part was expected. What I didn't expect was that I would also lose access to the things that fueled my creativity in the first place. At the end of the day, I was often too exhausted to watch the kinds of films I loved. The long, demanding, thought-provoking movies that had shaped me as an artist. The movies that made me want to create. I remember thinking: if I no longer have the energy to make films, and I no longer have the energy to be nourished by them either, then what exactly is left? I think that question was at the heart of a lot of my struggles. Because it felt like I had just lost access to the very thing that used to give my life meaning. Parenthood hadn't taken away my desire to create. But it had changed the conditions under which I had learned to create, and I didn't yet know how to adapt. That took me a long time to figure out. And in some ways, I still am. At some point, I realized that if I couldn't go back to the conditions that once gave my life meaning, then I had to redefine what meaning looked like from where I was. And I think that was the beginning of the shift.

There were many times when I thought my discomfort meant I wanted a different life. Times when I was missing a lot of things. First and foremost I missed my freedom. I also missed having more time for my projects and being able to follow an idea wherever it led without having to think about school schedules, bedtime routines, or family logistics. So I assumed the problem was fatherhood itself. But now, looking back, I don't think that was entirely true. What I really wanted was more breathing room. Maybe a little more support. More space to remain myself inside this new role. Those are different challenges. Because if the problem is your life, there's not much to do except fantasize about another one. But if the problem is how you're carrying your life, then there's something you can work with. Realizing this helped me stop treating fatherhood as the enemy and start paying attention to what was actually making it so difficult.

Difficult emotions aren't moral failures. This realization led to a small shift that helped me stop the endless debate about whether or not I should be feeling something. Because that's a place where I would often get stuck: Should I be this frustrated? Should I still miss my old life? Shouldn't I be more grateful? And most of all, shouldn't I be happier than this? The result was that I spent a lot of energy arguing with feelings that were already there. Eventually, I started looking at things differently. Instead of asking whether a feeling was justified, I started asking what it was trying to tell me. Sometimes the answer was that I needed rest. Sometimes it was that I'd neglected an important part of myself. Sometimes it was simply that I was going through a difficult season. Either way, the conversation became much more useful. The feelings were still there. But I stopped treating them like evidences that something was wrong with me.