I’m Just a Stupid Boy

A year into fatherhood and this is what I know.

Last week, while we had family in town to celebrate a baby shower, my son quietly turned one. Between the full house and a week of joyful chaos, it took me a little longer to sit down and reflect on what this milestone actually feels like. If you’ve been following me for a while, you know I don’t post his face online—but if I did, you’d see the ear-to-ear smile he flashes when he’s surrounded by our dogs. You’d hear the belly giggles echoing through the backyard as he splashes with his cousin in the sun.

But instead of just going on about how great he is (because he is), I wanted to take a minute to reflect on what this first year of parenting has felt like from the inside. Especially because, over the last twelve months, I’ve noticed how few stories there are from other new dads—particularly ones that don’t fall into the usual script of nursery gadgets and half-invested detachment. And even fewer that reflect a queer lens, or speak to fatherhood in a way that feels expansive, messy, and real.

So, here’s what I’ve learned. Or at least, what I’ve lived.

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The Mantra That Defined Our First Year

The time we didn’t pack extra clothes for a “quick trip”? Disaster.

The time we packed the bottle but left out the sealing disc that prevents it from leaking? Diaper bag: drenched. Formula: barely salvageable.

We stood there, soaked, underprepared, and slightly panicked.

Each time, we laughed anyway.

That’s when it hit us: we’re just stupid boys.

It started as a joke. A way to soften the sting of small parenting failures. But like most things that stick, it held a deeper truth. It gave us permission to mess up, laugh, and stop pretending we had any of this figured out.

Maybe you’ve had your version of that moment too—the forgotten bib, the meltdown in the grocery store, the comment from a stranger that lands just a little sideways (like asking who’s the “real dad”). Then suddenly you’re thinking: how is everyone else doing this?

Comparison is a trap. Existence doesn’t need an audience.

This Year Broke Me Open (In the Best Way)

This past year has been the most joyful and humbling of my life. Welcoming our son into the world burst everything open in the best way possible. Our days are louder, messier, slower in some ways and impossibly fast in others. It’s a life so full of small, shimmering moments that I sometimes forget what came before it.

With all that joy came the slow, quiet tug of comparison. Not just to other parents, but to other versions of myself.

The “before” me. The “productive” me. The one who had more time, more energy, more control.

Then there’s the comparison that creeps in when you scroll. The curated chaos. The perfect “parent” content. The “balance” we’re all supposed to be striving for. The sense that somehow you’re always either doing too much or not enough, but either way it’s still not exactly “right”.

The subtle chipping away at your confidence as most content centers a mom in a heterosexual relationship.

At each hit the thing I keep coming back to: comparison is a trap. Not just in parenting, but in everything. It’s the fastest way to kill joy, and the easiest way to lose track of what actually matters.

I’ve learned to stop asking, “Am I doing this right?” and start asking, “Is this working for us?”

The Small Stuff That’s Actually the Big Stuff

Here’s what is working:

• The spark in his eyes when he sees a dog.

• The nose crinkle when he’s pretending to be tough.

• The giggle he gives me when I walk in the room like, “Oh hell yeah, it’s you again!”

• The way he points with his whole hand like he’s casting a spell.

• The shoulder he leans into when he’s tired, like he already knows I’ll carry him.

What’s working is presence, laughter, and learning to care a whole lot less about being perceived and still giving a shit about the world we’re raising him in.

There’s something about showing up fully, even in exhaustion, that rewrites the old scripts. I don’t need to be the most prepared or the most patient or the most productive. Nobody does. I just need to be here—eyes open, hands steady, heart soft.

It’s so easy to spiral into what isn’t working. The nap that didn’t happen. The dinner that got cold. The workout I swore I’d do but never started because I got stuck scrolling through a world on fire. Lately, I’ve been trying to collect the moments that are working, instead of the ones that aren’t.

Sometimes, when I’m listing off those wins—the dog giggles, the spell-casting finger—I wonder: is this enough? And then I remember…

A wild first year started with a flight home to LA from Boise, and took us to aquariums in Lisbon and hangs with cousins and pups.

Perfection Isn’t Reality

The world will keep asking for polish, for certainty, for composure.

What’s actually needed? People who stay. People who choose presence over perfection, and connection over performance. People who find kindness for themselves and others, even when the world it seemingly forcing you to operate with anger.

That’s where love builds. That’s where change happens. In small, honest acts that don’t make it into an Instagram reel.

One year in, that’s the clearest thing I’ve learned: parenting isn’t about knowing. It’s about staying.

Now, onto year two—with fewer expectations, better snacks, and the same messy love.

But what do I know?

I’m just a stupid boy.