There’s a kind of stillness that doesn’t wait for silence.
It’s here now, in the motion of our home, in the sound of my son laughing in the next room, in the gentle stretch of my wife’s body preparing to bring our daughter into this world.
It’s in me too.
The clock hasn’t stopped. But somehow, everything has slowed.
Three years as a stay-at-home father taught me more than any book ever could.
About time.
About the parts of myself I had to put down just to be fully present.
And the unexpected joy of picking up pieces I never knew I needed—like learning how to be my son’s shadow, his mirror, his quiet student.
Watching his mind grow has been like observing a black hole pull in galaxies—tireless, hungry, wild with wonder.
He taught me that time bends.
That not every moment is created equal.
And that the most valuable ones are the ones we never get back.
Now, we’re days away from meeting our daughter.
And while I’ve sacrificed a lot—my office space, my late-night writing hours, even the illusion of control—
I’ve gained something weightless and infinite.
Joy that rises just from seeing her space, untouched but ready.
A thrill in every glance at my wife’s belly, the future growing inside her.
I’ll be stepping away from writing for the first week after her birth.
Not out of obligation, but reverence.
Because there are moments where life doesn’t want to be written about—it wants to be lived.
This will be my last time becoming a father.
And that truth holds a beautiful ache.
So I’m standing here, in the quiet before she arrives, grateful for every sacrifice, every late night, every stretch of stillness I’ve learned to hold.
Because I know now…
The best stories begin long before we write them.