It’s been two and a half weeks since our daughter arrived. And every single day has felt like both a breeze and a storm.
There’s awe in the quiet. The way something so small can rearrange the entire architecture of your life. I hold her, and I’m struck by the fragile nature of what we call the “apex species.” We’re born needing everything—love, protection, warmth—so that when we’re strong enough, we can give it back a hundredfold.
Three years ago, I called my son a world changer. And he is. But the real world-shifting has come from my wife and me showing up, every day, in the sacred roles we were given. Parenting, teaching, guiding—not with perfection, but with presence.
Zoen, now a big brother, has stepped into his new role with a heart wide open. He helps feed her. Doesn’t flinch at a diaper. Offers binkies like tiny peace treaties. He comforts her in ways that make me pause—gentle words, a rattle in hand, love without instruction. He’s watching us. And he’s doing it all with kindness.
My wife has been extraordinary. Strength in motion. Multi-tasking in her sleep. Resting in pieces, yet holding everything together. There’s a grace in how she moves through the chaos that teaches more than any book could offer.
And me? I’ve been moving too—between workshop rehearsals for the Lakefly Writers Conference and making sure Zoen still feels like the center of a universe that’s just expanded. I’m teaching him what it means to adjust, to hold space for change, to grow without losing ground.
I’m tired. But I’m grateful.
To those of you still reading—still walking your own paths, still showing up even when it’s hard—thank you. For being here. For helping this world turn by simply choosing to care, to love, to look up once in a while and wonder how it all works.
We’re part of something vast. Every living thing. Every breath. Every choice to keep going.
Thank you for your patience during these early newborn days. More posts are coming. The dreams haven’t faded—in fact, they’re sharper now.
May you be well. May you be happy.
I’ll see you in three days.
—G. Anthony