Every winter I turn into a leaf.
Not delicate. Not poetic. Just untethered.
The winter winds pick up around similar themes each year. This year they are fatherhood, grief, self-worth, masculinity, the state of the country. The combination shifts slightly, but the feeling is familiar.
Some days it is a steady breeze. I work out. I write. I am present with my family. I feel capable. I feel like myself.
Other days it becomes a crosswind. A headline lands differently. A comment lingers longer than it should. Someone says, “Let’s just not talk about it,” and I feel myself lift. Not inspired. Not devastated. Just irritated and slightly airborne, looking for something solid.
I am not depressed. I am not furious. I am easily irritated. Irritation, for me, usually means I do not have a branch.
Fatherhood intensifies the wind. Loving my son does not quiet anything. It sharpens it. Everything feels more consequential. I am not only asking who I am becoming. I am asking what kind of man he sees when the wind picks up.
Underneath the workouts, the posts, the restraint, the agitation, the business planning, and the careful conversations, there is a quieter question that hums.
For what?
Do I start something new? For what?
Do I speak up? For what?
Do I keep caring at this volume? For what?
Do I push back when it would be easier not to? For what?
The culture continues to slide. Comfort often wins. Disengagement gets framed as maturity. Silence masquerades as peace. In that environment, effort can feel naive.
For what?
There is a specific kind of loneliness that comes from caring in a room that prefers normal.
When people I encounter tell me I am pushing too hard, caring too much, taking it too personally, what they usually mean is this: things are still functioning enough for them.
The dinners are happening. The paychecks are landing. The schools are open.
The wind has not hit their branch yet.
I do not think most people are bad. I think many are tired. I think many are busy. I think many are trying to protect their peace. I get it.
I just do not know how to build mine by looking away.
I feel alone in those moments. I also feel defensive. Defensive in the quiet way that sounds like: Do you really think this stops with someone else? Do you think the line stays exactly where it is?
Caring “too much” is sometimes just refusing to pretend this is normal.
It is not that I enjoy being unsettled. It is that once you see the wind, you cannot unsee it.
I wish it were easier for me to look the other way. I wish I could treat this like background noise. I wish I could decide that raising a loving kid is enough and let the rest sort itself out.
That would be simpler. It would probably make me more pleasant to be around.
The problem is not that I think I am the hero in this story.
The problem is that I know he is watching.
Rheo is learning what we tolerate. He is learning what we ignore. He is learning whether comfort outranks courage.
Raising a loving kid is necessary. It is not sufficient.
He does not grow up in a vacuum. He grows up in whatever we normalize.
I am trying to do all of this while being a present dad, a steady partner, a decent friend, and an active member of society. The dad version of me is supposed to be steady, grounded, dependable. That version exists. It just does not cancel out the questions.
I do not want to collapse into “dad” as my only safe identity. I also do not want to become the angry guy in the corner. I do not want to perform outrage. I do not want to perform gratitude. I want depth without self-righteousness. I want softness without indifference.
This may simply be what being between identities feels like. I used to have a defined container: teacher, classroom, paycheck, rhythm. That phase shaped me. It also held me.
Now I am trying to build toward something different. A different rhythm. A different way of working. A different version of myself that is not handed to me by an institution or a title. I am still figuring out what that looks like.
The wind feels louder in that space.
Two things can be true at the same time. I can build a joyful home and still refuse to shrug at what is happening outside it.
The answer to “for what” may not be applause, certainty, or visible progress. It may be simpler.
I am still here. He is watching.
The wind does not get to decide who I am, even when it gets loud.
The leaf is not broken but it refuses to land somewhere that asks it to stop caring.
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