One of the hardest parts of becoming a parent, for me, was that the things that used to give my life meaning suddenly became much harder to pursue. Making films became harder, of course. There was less time, less energy, more responsibilities. That part was expected. What I didn't expect was that I would also lose access to the things that fueled my creativity in the first place. At the end of the day, I was often too exhausted to watch the kinds of films I loved. The long, demanding, thought-provoking movies that had shaped me as an artist. The movies that made me want to create. I remember thinking: if I no longer have the energy to make films, and I no longer have the energy to be nourished by them either, then what exactly is left? I think that question was at the heart of a lot of my struggles. Because it felt like I had just lost access to the very thing that used to give my life meaning. Parenthood hadn't taken away my desire to create. But it had changed the conditions under which I had learned to create, and I didn't yet know how to adapt. That took me a long time to figure out. And in some ways, I still am. At some point, I realized that if I couldn't go back to the conditions that once gave my life meaning, then I had to redefine what meaning looked like from where I was. And I think that was the beginning of the shift.

There were many times when I thought my discomfort meant I wanted a different life. Times when I was missing a lot of things. First and foremost I missed my freedom. I also missed having more time for my projects and being able to follow an idea wherever it led without having to think about school schedules, bedtime routines, or family logistics. So I assumed the problem was fatherhood itself. But now, looking back, I don't think that was entirely true. What I really wanted was more breathing room. Maybe a little more support. More space to remain myself inside this new role. Those are different challenges. Because if the problem is your life, there's not much to do except fantasize about another one. But if the problem is how you're carrying your life, then there's something you can work with. Realizing this helped me stop treating fatherhood as the enemy and start paying attention to what was actually making it so difficult.

Difficult emotions aren't moral failures. This realization led to a small shift that helped me stop the endless debate about whether or not I should be feeling something. Because that's a place where I would often get stuck: Should I be this frustrated? Should I still miss my old life? Shouldn't I be more grateful? And most of all, shouldn't I be happier than this? The result was that I spent a lot of energy arguing with feelings that were already there. Eventually, I started looking at things differently. Instead of asking whether a feeling was justified, I started asking what it was trying to tell me. Sometimes the answer was that I needed rest. Sometimes it was that I'd neglected an important part of myself. Sometimes it was simply that I was going through a difficult season. Either way, the conversation became much more useful. The feelings were still there. But I stopped treating them like evidences that something was wrong with me.

Acceptance gets a bad reputation. At least it did in my mind. For years, I associated it with surrender. And so I resisted accepting my reality as a father. I feared that if I stopped fighting the fact that my life had changed, I'd be admitting defeat. This kept me stuck between two worlds. I couldn't go back to my old life. But I wasn't fully investing myself in the life I actually had either. What I eventually realized is that acceptance and resignation are not the same thing. Resignation says:"This is my life now. Nothing good can come from it." Acceptance says:"This is my life now. What can I build from here?" That distinction ended up being much bigger than it sounds. Because the day I stopped wishing reality was different, I finally had some energy left to improve it.

For years I believed that missing my old life meant I wasn't grateful for the one I had. So every time I missed my freedom, my creative projects, or the version of myself that existed before becoming a father, I immediately felt guilty. The two experiences became fused together. Missing something became proof that I was ungrateful. Wanting something became proof that I didn't love what I already had. Looking back, I don't think either of those things was true. I think it's possible to love your children deeply and still grieve parts of the life you left behind. In fact, I suspect that acknowledging that grief is often healthier than pretending it isn't there. What made things difficult for me wasn't necessarily the feeling itself. It was feeling like I wasn't allowed to have it.