My Daughter My Teacher
Foreword
To be honest with myself is to say that I’ve been afraid to write this post. It’s taken a full month to sit down and let my heart fill the page with my truths. I’ve been resisting this post.
I examined the discomfort to notice that I’ve now set expectations. I witnessed my desire for people to read these posts and respond positively. This was never the intent behind these writings. My first post created an impact on a few people in ways that surprised me. The point of these six posts is to break through my insecurities but, interestingly, a byproduct has been to spark inward reflection in others. This has caused my ego to start playing old tricks on me. A few years back I discovered that I have a fear of success, not failure. That means, at times, I play small and I don’t step into my full, masculine power. This is one of those moments where my mind is trying to convince me to play small.
But today is a new day, and a new opportunity to push through. Here goes.
As I approach my daughter’s fourth birthday, I’ve found an opportunity for reflection and, honestly, the first few years sadden me. I was one of those dads who would say, “I’m staying home tonight to babysit”. At the time, I didn’t grasp what I was signaling to others, myself and my daughter, Charlie, by saying that. Today’s writing is an opportunity to unpack the shame and share a new perspective.
Birth
My dad often refers to the moment that my three brothers and I were born as the closest he felt to god. That’s a lot for an atheist to experience. That story has always sat with me because we’re societally conditioned to believe that the birth of a child is life’s greatest experience. For me, the idea was always intellectual until Charlie was born.
I once read that, while in utero, a baby can hear mum’s voice and starts to build a connection with her. The book suggested that the other parent should also talk to the tummy in an attempt to build that same connection. I found myself, in the months leading up to Charlie’s birth, reading books into a belly button. Weird visual, I know. Not knowing if my efforts would pay off, or how they would present themselves, I had to trust.
When Charlie was born, she was crying on the nurse’s table. The nurse prompted me to start talking and, after introducing myself, she stopped crying, locked eyes with me and our gazes embraced each other for the first time. God-like experience number one. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was the first of many lessons my daughter would teach me.
Formative Years
The two years that followed can only be described as incredibly challenging, painful and sad. As much as I tried to lead with love and presence, I often found myself disconnected and completely out of my depth. Our family experienced severe postnatal depression, which had both parents in a state of breakdown. Even though I was undiagnosed, I’m certain that, for the first time in my life, I was experiencing depression and despair. I was the king of covering up my sadness with pretty pictures on Instagram, attending family events with cute kid in tow, and masking the heavy fog within. What baffled me was that, whilst living in LA, there was a significant lack of professional support and limited research into postnatal depression. We felt quite alone during these early years.
That said, there were experiences of love and joy, like family trips, first mothers’/fathers’ days and the fleeting moments of warmth and comfort at feeding time. These experiences were there to serve as a reminder that light and dark coexist. One can’t exist without the other. Did our romantic relationship survive? No. But there is love in a new form. Did we miss Charlie’s first birthday due to depression-related circumstances? Yes. But that made the second birthday cake taste even sweeter.
It was during these early years that I hadn’t really connected to what my role was, how I was going to show up for my family, and who I needed to be for Charlie and her Mum. I was in a constant state of going going going; often missing the beautiful, quiet moments at home. This was also the time where I was the “babysitting dad” mentioned above. I’d assumed if I put food on the table, cleaned up, and cared for Charlie when Mum needed a break, that I was a good dad. These actions, are fine but I was too focused on ‘doing’ rather than ‘being’. I was ‘doing’ all the right things but ‘being’ the wrong person. What made it worse was that my ego craved to be acknowledged for my actions, and when I showed up disconnected and frustrated, it was impossible to receive.
Intellectually, I knew that children don’t remember much from their formative years. Instead, they start to develop their internal values, feelings and emotions. We, as parents, are responsible for that. Love, presence, safety, nurture, freedom of expression; these all come from states of being. Coming out of these challenging years, I came to understand that a crying child is best met with love and compassion first, followed by whatever action is needed to soothe.
For me, this is best represented in something I learned in a transformational course I took while Charlie was being conceived. I learned “Be, Do, Have”. First I must “Be” what I want, then I start “Doing” from this state of being — then I discover that what I’m doing winds up bringing me the things I want to “Have.”
This concept has become a central pillar in how I try to conduct myself at home, at work and in my community. With my developing awareness, I became conscious of the notion that Charlie was, in a way, put on this earth to teach me.
Toddlers
I’m currently in a state of inward reflection, often participating in new experiences as I dive into the unknown within. A few months ago, it led me to an experience that I will call a ceremony. During this experience I was asked a question “What does Charlie look like?” The source of this question was God-like experience number two. Re-reading my journal, at the time, I actually described it as being connected to the divine.
I thought this was an easy question as I started to formulate my response. But my answer never came. I could describe the color of her hair, eyes and the formation of her nose, but I couldn’t go much deeper. My mind started to jitter and palms began to sweat as the depth of the question began to resonate. Heat rushed through my body as a sense of sadness replaced the physical presence. I relented helplessly with an answer: “I don’t know”. In this moment, as hopeless as I felt, I had to admit to myself that I had not seen Charlie, perhaps not since the first moment we met back on the nurses table.
I realized that, by saying “I am staying home to babysit”, what I was really communicating is that I had created a divide between her and I. We weren’t one. I hadn’t taken ownership of my connection to her and didn’t acknowledge the profound magnitude of what it means to bring life into this world. The comprehension of family lineage had never been present for me to feel it. I am the byproduct of so much life before me and now I’m passing that down. So profound was this realization, it had me completely connected to god or the divine or life itself. Oneness was felt in every cell. God-like experience number three.
Journaling post-ceremony, I noted that I had been so busy doing all the things, I didn’t create space to really take it in. I was so caught up in the doing that I hadn’t stopped to smell the roses. I hadn’t created time to lock eyes with Charlie like we did on day one. That question was there to remind me to stop, breath and be present. What’s on the other side of presence? LOVE!
I was recently asked by an incredible poet, IN Q, to write a poem about a life changing experience. I wrote this:
What does she look like
Easy I thought
What does she look like
I see her everyday just talk
My mind tries to see her face
I stumble failing to make it clear
I see the blue eyes
The hair is blonde
But wait why is this so hard
Have I been looking
I crack, my heart reveals itself
I’ve pushed her to one side
A burden on my life
Something to handle, perhaps not to be seen
How can this be
It clicks like a lock releasing
The truth inside, my pain laid bare
I now see what I could not before
My suffering inside
I could not see because I was blocked
My heart closed off
I realize now I have been keeping her out
At arm’s length
My truth is now clear
That burden is no more
That life is now my heart
My greatest teacher is here
I just did not see
What she looks like now
My god, my divine she is me
My daughter
Party Mode
Today, my daughter, my teacher is a new north star for me. Young children only know presence, unbound emotion, joy, expressive dance, wonder, imagination, play, and love. Total freedom of expression from a constant state of being. I have the opportunity to lead her through a world of new experiences, and I get to do that through living my values and being connected. I was naive to go into fatherhood as though it were a one-way street of teaching because, four years in, I am grateful for the experiences. I am not regretful for being disconnected in those early years, because I needed that to get me to where I am today. Better I learn this on her fourth birthday than on her 18th, or even never at all.
Charlie, maybe one day you will read this, so thank you muffin.
Nicholas G K Ingate
Discomfort rating for opening up about my truth around fatherhood:
6.5 out 10
Again, thank you JJ, for supporting me.
