I find Father’s Day kind of hard. My Dad died when he was only forty-five. The day always brings that loss close. While others celebrate with their Dads, I’m reminded of the conversations we never had, the milestones he never got to see, rounds of golf, All Black performances and the advice I can only imagine. For a long time, Father’s Day felt more about absence than celebration.

But having a daughter has changed that. Charlotte has given the day new meaning. Instead of only looking back at what I lost, I get to look forward at what I’ve been given. Fatherhood hasn’t erased the grief, but it has made space for gratitude, laughter, and hope. In a real sense, being Charlotte’s Dad has been my most important lesson in how love and life can flourish, even in the shadow of loss.

My Dad was awesome. He showed me that being a father wasn’t about being perfect or polished, it was about showing up. He was steady, kind, and deeply present. He didn’t have to talk much about love; indeed I don’t think we ever exchanged the “I love you”, I knew it by the way he lived. If I can be even half the Dad to Charlotte that he was to me, I’ll consider that an achievement.

When I think about him now, it’s not the big moments that stand out, it’s the small ones. His laugh. The way he made time for us. The way he stayed calm in tough situations. Those ordinary things created a sense of safety, belonging, and joy. That’s what flourishing looks like in a family: not dramatic gestures, but love expressed in the everyday.

Now, with Charlotte, those same lessons return to me in new ways. She has been my teacher as much as I have been hers. She spots my distractions instantly. She notices when my patience runs thin. And she’s quick to remind me that being present matters more than being perfect. She humbles me, makes me laugh, and stretches me to grow. That’s not just parenting, it’s part of my own well-being. Fatherhood holds up a mirror, and in trying to help her flourish, I find myself learning to flourish too.

The ordinary moments with Charlotte are the ones that matter most. The early-morning rowing drop-offs. Cooking meals together and laughing when she just takes over. The car rides where she shares her highs and lows, or sometimes just plays music too loud for me. The sideline moments, where even if she pretends not to notice, she knows I’m there. These small rituals give us love, meaning, and belonging to the very things research tells us sit at the heart of flourishing.

I’ll admit, when I was younger, I thought being a Dad meant having all the answers. Strength, certainty, problem-solving that’s how I imagined the role. But Charlotte has taught me otherwise. Being a Dad is more about listening than advising, more about forgiving than fixing, more about laughing together than having the last word. It’s about creating the kind of trust where she knows she can come to me, even when she doesn’t need me to solve anything.

Of course, I get it wrong. I check my phone when I should be paying attention. I make promises I can’t always keep. But one thing I’ve learned is that saying “sorry” is as much a part of fatherhood as saying “I love you.”  

So yes, Father’s Day is still bittersweet. I think of my Dad, gone too soon, and I wish he could have seen Charlotte. I wish he could have shared in the life I’ve built. But Father’s Day is no longer just about what I lost. It’s also about what I have the chance to love and be loved, the joy of helping Charlotte grow, the reminder that life is precious and worth investing in fully.

For me, that’s what flourishing looks like. It’s not about a perfect life, but about a meaningful one. It’s found in love that is practiced daily, in belonging that gives us roots, and in the purpose that comes from being connected to something bigger than ourselves.

If Charlotte grows up knowing she is loved and supported, then I will have helped her flourish. And in the process, she has helped me flourish too.

Presence, not perfection, that’s what being a Dad means to me.