Dear Dad: Dylan Macinerney
The sixth edition of Dear Dad With Dylan Macinerney from The Fatherhood Framework
Welcome to Dear Dad
"Dear Dad is a space where fathers reflect on their journey, sharing the wisdom they wish they had before becoming a dad. Each week, a different dad opens up about his experiences, lessons, and insights. If you could go back and give yourself advice before fatherhood, what would you say? Share your thoughts in the comments."
Introduction by Gareth Wall
There’s a kind of tiredness that parents know—the kind that doesn’t just sit in your eyes but settles in your bones. It’s not like the all-nighters you pulled in your twenties. Those had a deadline, a purpose, and an endpoint. You could crash after the assignment was in, sleep off the night out, recover when you’d cleared your diary. Parenthood isn’t like that. It doesn’t clock off when you hand something in. There’s no break scheduled in the calendar. No weekend to recover. It’s relentless—and not in a punishing, joyless way, but in the sense that it just keeps going. Even when they start sleeping, a new chapter begins—like waiting up while they’re out with friends, worrying if they’re safe. The demands shift, but they don’t disappear.
That’s what I love about Dylan’s letter. It doesn’t romanticise the early days, but it doesn’t resent them either. It holds the weight of those early moments—the fear, the fog, the fierce love—and it lets them be as big and messy as they are. He captures that strange contradiction: how you can be completely overwhelmed and completely devoted at the same time. How exhaustion and joy sit right next to each other at 3 a.m., when you’re whispering to a crying baby and realising you’d do it a thousand times over.
There’s something else Dylan touches on that really stays with me—the idea that we grow into fatherhood. That it’s not something we fully understand when we first hear the word “Dad” aimed our way. It’s a slow becoming. We don’t arrive fully formed. We change as they change. They grow into themselves while we grow into who we need to be for them. It’s a parallel process—a partnership, even if they’re too small to realise it yet.
Now, Dylan’s other writing often zooms out and asks bigger questions—about how society supports or sidelines parents, about how systems shape our ability to show up. And I really value that lens, because context is everything. But this letter? This is a quieter one. It’s not about the world outside—it’s about the world within. It’s a letter to the version of himself who thought he knew what was coming, who didn’t yet know what love could feel like, what fear could mean, or how much pride could be felt in a tiny moment like a baby banging a xylophone.
It’s a beautiful reminder that being a dad is something you become—not just something you are. That you don’t have to be ready. You just have to show up. Again and again and again.
Dear Dad,
Dear Me,
You think you’re ready. You’ve read the books, watched the videos, maybe even tried practicing swaddling the cat while your wife wasn’t looking. You’ve run the numbers, worked to earn paternity leave, and convinced yourself that while you might not feel ready, you at least know what’s coming. But let me tell you something—you don’t know. And that’s okay.
You don’t know exhaustion—not really. You’ve pulled all-nighters in college, stayed up too late with friends, pushed through work on too little sleep. But nothing compares to the grind of those first few months. It’s not just tiredness; it’s a fog that settles over your mind, a weight in your bones. You’ll learn to function on two-hour increments of sleep, eyes barely open as you rock a crying baby at 3 a.m., whispering prayers that he’ll drift off so you can steal a few more minutes of rest. But somehow, even in the haze, you’ll find moments of clarity—like watching his tiny chest rise and fall in the dim light, realizing you’d do this a thousand times over. You’ll forget what it feels like to wake up rested, but you’ll also forget what it felt like to have a life without your son in it.
You don’t know fear—not like this. You think fear is missing a deadline or not living up to the perfectionist expectations you have set for yourself. But wait until you’re holding a newborn, and the weight of being his provider crashes over you. Then imagine losing your job when every fiber of your being is screaming that you need to be steady, stable, secure. You’ll wonder who you are if you can’t provide. You’ll sit awake at night, staring at the ceiling, running the numbers over and over again, trying to figure out how to make it work. But here’s the thing—you will find a way. Fatherhood isn’t about never falling; it’s about getting back up, pushing through fear, and standing tall, because someone small is counting on you. And he doesn’t care about titles or salaries. He just needs you—your voice, your warmth, your presence. That’s what truly makes you a provider.
You don’t know pride—not the way you’re about to. Sure, you’ve felt proud before—of a promotion, a personal best, a project well done. But nothing will compare to the way your chest swells when he eats his first solids or babbles “Dada” for the first time. You’ll marvel at how his mind works, how he figures out the smallest things—clapping, banging on his xylophone, chasing the cat—and it will feel like the biggest accomplishment in the world. Because it is. You’ll see pieces of yourself in him—your determination, your stubbornness, your humor. And sometimes, he’ll surprise you by becoming someone completely different, someone uniquely his own. That’s when you’ll feel the greatest pride of all.
Most importantly, you don’t know love—not yet. You love your wife, your family, your friends. But the first time you hold your son, everything you thought you knew about love is rewritten in an instant. It’s not just love; it’s something deeper, something unshakable. It’s knowing you would do anything, give anything, be anything for him. It’s feeling your entire purpose shift in an instant—from a man with dreams of his own to a father whose dreams now revolve around his son. So no, you don’t know. Not yet. But you will. And when you do, you’ll realize—you were never truly ready. Because while you may not have been ready, you were always meant to be his.
Sincerely,
A Dad Who Didn’t Know—But Learned
Meet Dylan Macinerney
🧑 Who they are: The West Wing meets the Baby Bjorn—fatherhood, policy, and culture, twice a week. At the Fatherhood Framework, Dylan is taking on the issues dads face every day, big and small. From sweeping cultural trends and hot button political topics down to the mundane tasks, he covers it all while having a bit of fun along the way.
🌍 Where to find them:
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Reflections on Fatherhood & Coaching
"Fatherhood is a journey, and we all figure it out as we go. Through my coaching, I help dads build stronger relationships at home, communicate better, and feel more confident in their role. If you're looking for support in your fatherhood journey, check out my coaching sessions here. Let’s build the kind of dad you want to be."
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