5/9/21

Dear Atlas,

It’s me, your Dad.

Throughout your pregnancy, I’ve gone on my own inner journey of reflection, growth, and processing. In nine months, you can process a lot.

Before I was old enough to buy a beer, I lost my Dad (your Opa) to Cancer. He was fifty-one years old, Atlas. He was my original Hero, followed by my Opa, his Dad. Life is difficult to figure out in your twenties. It’s a lot harder when you lose your Dad on top of it.

In the last weeks before your arrival, I’ve battled a lot of difficult emotions. Fear is present, as well as its cousins, doubt and uncertainty. Most of these emotions seemed normal to process. It made sense to me, as an emerging Father, that I would need to battle a few demons before your arrival.

However, there was one bit of pain that didn’t seem to go away. It felt familiar, as if the pain has been inside of me for years. Yet, it felt infinitely multiplied ever since finding out I was to be your Dad.

What was that pain, Atlas? I figured out the answer to that question last night.

Not all pain shows its source right away, Atlas. More importantly, people experiencing it don’t always know where the source is and often make mistakes, especially when dealing with other people fighting to do the same thing.

People often treat their pain in the wrong way, as well, such as by using alcohol, drugs, career, distraction, sex, toys, speed, and more pain to cover up their wounds instead of heal them. That’s why you see so many young men joining gangs: rather than address their issue of having no father, they try to replace what’s missing and mask their tears with fakes instead of fathers.

I think people do this with God, too, Atlas. They try to replace, repair, or cover up the painful parts of their spirit with their own fixes instead of allowing God to step into those spots and fill the void.

My answer to the source of the deep-rooted pain came when I realized that the heroes I looked up to in my life for all things related to being a Dad (and man) are no longer alive—your Opa and Great-Opa, to me, Dad and Opa.

I’m in that spot now for you, Atlas. Dad. Daddy. Father. And I feel somewhat lost as I am embarking on this journey, because I miss these men. I miss my Dad, Atlas.

It’s been thirteen years and the pain has never gone away, though I have done my best to deal with it or mask it.

I tried my best, Atlas. I tried to “be a man” and become successful. So, I threw myself headfirst into projects and chased the everlasting dollar. The money never kept me warm at night or told me how much it appreciated me being me. As a result, I made it all and lost it several times over before I turned thirty.

Somewhere along the lines, I discovered that being a man meant a lot more than having a BMW in your garage. It meant living from your heart, keeping your word, giving to the poor, calling your family (and supporting them), living courageously, and respecting others. I realized that taking out the trash makes you just as much a hero as launching an IPO—especially when your partner is pregnant.

You’ll learn as you grow older that some pain is meant to be there for a reason. It’s okay that I miss my Dad, Atlas. Someday, you will also understand what this means. However, between the pain you will experience in your life and its inverse of abundant joy, you will find a balance—and yourself somewhere in the middle of it all.

Our bags are packed for the hospital (just in case), and we are both as ready for you as we will ever be.

Get here soon, little Atlas. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms. Already, I can’t imagine the feeling of letting go after holding you for the first time.

You. Our little Hero.

Love,

Dad