Being a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done. It’s chaotic, messy, and loud, but there’s nothing in the world that compares to it. Being a divorced dad, though? That’s something else entirely. It’s like trying to run a marathon while juggling flaming torches—you love your kids more than anything, but the logistics of shared custody, the communication (or lack thereof) with their mom, and the ache of saying goodbye when it’s her turn can just about break you some days.
Every time I have to say goodbye to my kids, it feels like a piece of me goes with them. Whether they’re climbing into her car with their little backpacks or I’m dropping them off at her place after my weekend, there’s this tightness in my chest that doesn’t go away. It’s not just about missing them—it’s about wondering if they’re okay. Are they happy? Are they eating more than just chicken nuggets? Is she being patient, or is it one of those days where everything feels like a fight?
The hardest part is the not knowing. And then there’s the frustration. Let’s be honest: co-parenting with someone you don’t get along with is no walk in the park. There are texts that make me want to throw my phone across the room, arguments about things that shouldn’t even be arguments, and those moments where I feel like I’m doing all the bending while she holds firm. And the digs? Oh, the digs. It’s like she knows exactly which buttons to push. Sometimes I think she must have a secret notebook full of ways to drive me up a wall.
But my kids are always watching. They see how I talk about their mom, how I handle conflict, how I respond when things don’t go my way. And the last thing I ever want is for them to feel caught in the middle or, worse, like they have to pick sides. So I take a deep breath. I count to ten. I remind myself that my relationship with their mom isn’t about me—it’s about them. If I need to yell, I do it into a pillow. If I need to vent, I call a friend. If I need space, I go for a run. And I try—God, I try—to respond with kindness, even when it feels impossible.
When it’s my time with them, I focus on the moments we do have instead of the ones we don’t. Not every day is an epic adventure, and honestly, most of our best times aren’t. It’s the little things—the pancakes we make together on Saturday mornings (even if half of them burn), the way we build Lego towers that collapse into a million pieces, the cuddles on the couch during movie nights. It’s hearing their belly laughs or watching them try to teach me TikTok dances (badly).
I’ve realized that it’s not about trying to pack every second with something memorable. It’s about being there, really being there, for the everyday stuff. The small, ordinary moments where they know, without a doubt, that they are loved and safe and that this time is ours.
It’s not always easy. Sometimes, they miss their mom while they’re with me, and I get it. It’s hard to explain how much that stings, even though I know it’s not personal. They love her, and they should. But when they look at me with those big eyes and say, “I wish I could stay at Mommy’s tonight,” I have to swallow the lump in my throat and tell them it’s okay to miss her. I say, “I’m glad you love Mommy so much. She loves you, too.” Because their love for her doesn’t take anything away from their love for me. Kids don’t split their love in halves—they just grow more of it.
And then there are the days when I screw it all up. Days when I snap because I’m tired or frustrated or just not my best self. Days when I lose my patience or raise my voice or handle a situation in a way that keeps me up at night later. Those are the hardest days because I want so badly to be the dad they deserve, not the one who’s still figuring it all out. But when I mess up, I try to own it. I sit them down and say, “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t handle that the way I wanted to, and I’m going to work on it.” It’s humbling, but it’s real. I hope they’ll remember that even their dad is human.
This isn’t easy work, but it’s the most important work. It’s teaching me that love isn’t just about the big gestures or the words we say—it’s in the showing up, the being present, the choosing to keep trying even on the hard days. It’s in showing them that even though our family looks different now, they are still surrounded by love every step of the way.
If you’re a dad walking this road, I see you. I know how heavy it can feel, how much you carry, and how hard it is to say goodbye when you just want to hold them a little longer. I know the frustration, the heartbreak, the way it feels like the world keeps asking you to bend without breaking. But I also know this: you are doing the work. You are showing them, every day, what love looks like. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.
Someday, they’ll look back and see how much you did for them. They’ll remember the pancakes, the laughter, the quiet reassurances. They’ll know you loved them fiercely, even when it hurt, even when it wasn’t easy. And that? That’s what makes all of this worth it.
