A Small Voice

When I lie awake at night or I drift into a lucid haze during my commute, one specific and profound childhood memory often comes to me. I was six years old and my regular school teacher was off sick. She had been temporarily replaced by Mrs. Seoudy who was feared and loved in equal measure. Without a lesson plan or knowledge of what we had been studying, Mrs. Seoudy gave us sheets of paper and pens and told us simply to write a story. We were permitted to discuss ideas quietly but we had the next forty-five minutes to write *something*.

I have no recollection of what I wrote that day but what followed has stayed with me ever since. As she walked around the classroom maintaining a semblance of discipline, she glanced over at my story and stopped to read what I had so far. Halfway through, she addressed me and asked me to stand up and read aloud what I had written. Once I had finished my nervous recital she looked directly at me and said “this is a really brilliant piece of writing.” I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more proud.

Fast-forward eight years, I’m in high school and we are given another creative writing assignment. I procrastinated, wrote a few outlines, started a few drafts and followed the advice we had been given and then ignored it until the night before it was due. In a panic, I sat down and typed. I had no idea where the story was going, but it went. Writing felt good; expressing my ideas and watching the chaos of my thoughts unfold as the words landed on the page excited one part of my brain and calmed another.

I can vividly picture the “A*” in red pen when it was returned. There was no further analysis, just the words “See me” scribbled next to the grade. After our next lesson, I went to see our English teacher, whose name I can sadly no longer remember. She was a young, blonde woman who could speak Japanese and deeply cared about her students. She was complimentary of my work and said that after reading it she has shared it with her housemates as she knew they would enjoy it. My heart swelled with pride.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I suppose the memories above have always stuck with me as a reminder, a thorn in my side perhaps, that I am, or was, *okay* at writing. More importantly, I enjoy it on a visceral level. And yet nearly twenty years later, apart from a few essays related to work/self-improvement on my old blog, I have written nothing. It is a betrayal of self to have not written and explored my ideas - even if the purpose for just my own fulfilment.

Sixteen months ago, I became a father. My life changed incomprehensibly: worldviews cracked open, priorities upended, joy and dread now sharing the same breath. For the first time in years, I felt an ache to write, not for answers, but to trace the shape of this seismic shift. Was it her first laugh, a sound so pure it rewired my heart? Or the 3 a.m. vigils, where her sleepy murmurs echoed like a clock ticking louder on my own finite time? I can’t yet say. But I’ve learned that fatherhood, like writing, is an act of faith. You begin without knowing, trusting the words will come.

So here we are. I’ve found a distinct lack of good writing about fatherhood, especially in essays and long-form. The shelves groan with guides and lists: strict fitness regimes, parenting styles branded like religions, judgement masquerading as advice. What I crave are stories where fathers admit they’re winging it: real people making mistakes, sweating through sleepless nights, loving in ways that don’t fit a flowchart. I can’t promise to fill the gap, but I’ll try to document my own stumbles and small triumphs, as truthfully as I know how.