The Weight and Wonder of Being Dad
The Weight and Wonder of Being Dad
By Nathan Shenton
After a difficult evening, with the house finally still and quiet, I find myself sat in the dark with a knot in my stomach. Parenting isn’t just about love. It’s about guilt. Doubt. Heartbreak. And trying to be someone’s anchor while you’re still learning how to steady yourself.
I’m a dad to two beautiful boys. One is just beginning his journey through the world, toddling, discovering, laughing. The other—Dougie—is five, full of fire, wit, and the kind of wild spirit that makes him utterly electric.
He is the strongest boy I’ve ever met. He cares deeply—for the planet, for animals, for his baby brother. He climbs anything that will hold his weight. He shouts, he sings, he kicks footballs, and he speaks to ladybirds like they’re his closest confidants. He loves music like I do—gothic rock at full volume—and tells me I’m his best friend. We go to air shows, museums, softplay days, and campsites together. He’s my shadow and my sunshine.
Me and Dougie in our blanket hoodies after a shower at camp — our first camping trip, just the two of us.
And yet, lately, everything feels harder.
He’s struggling. With his emotions. With his energy. With the big, loud, messy world that demands he behave while he’s still learning how to be. There are tantrums. Shouting. Broken things. Broken hearts.
Mine included.
It’s hard not to take it personally. To wonder if I’ve failed him. If I’ve been too soft. Or too harsh. If I should have said something different. Handled it better. Been calmer. More consistent. Less tired.
Us making tea on the camp stove — two nights of chilly but magical, make-it-up-as-you-go kind of parenting.
There are nights I send him to bed after a bad evening, his face red from crying, mine still warm from yelling—and I feel like the worst dad in the world. I sit on the sofa thinking, What if he wakes up sad? What if he thinks I don’t love him? What if I’m messing this all up?
Because the truth is, he is everything to me. And when he’s struggling, I want to burst into his room, scoop him into my arms and make the world soft and safe again. I want him to know that even when I’m stern, I’m still his safe place. That even when he’s misbehaving, he’s still my favourite person. That nothing he could ever do would take away how proud I am to be his dad.
A doughnut café, an old Mortal Kombat machine, and two boys just button-mashing their hearts out.
I tell him every day that I love him with all of my soul. But the worry still lingers. That I’m not getting it right.
The hardest part of parenting isn’t the noise or the mess or the chaos. It’s the silent self-doubt that creeps in when the house falls quiet.
But I’m learning that love isn’t about getting it right every time.
It’s about showing up. Over and over and over again. With your whole heart. Even when it’s bruised. Even when it’s breaking. Even when you’re not sure you’re enough.
Posing outside a life-sized F-35 fighter at RAF Cosford — a rare still moment with my kinetic little storm.
Because one day, he won’t need me to tuck him in. Or fix his broken toys. Or build and play in our Minecraft games. And I’ll look back and realise these were the hard but beautiful years.
I grieve every version of Dougie I’ve already lost.
The baby who used to curl up on my chest.
The toddler escape artist who could climb out of his cot before he could form full sentences.
The boy who believes every piece of gravel is a gemstone.
But I fall in love with every new version too — the bold, brilliant boy he’s becoming.
It’s messy.
It’s magical.
It’s heartbreaking.
It’s the greatest job in the world.