What I’m Good At (And Didn’t Expect to Be)

If you had asked me a year ago what I was good at, I might’ve hesitated. Not because I didn’t have skills. I did. I could lead teams, manage chaos, show up for work like clockwork. I was functional. Reliable. I did what needed doing. But there was a difference between being good at things and being good for something.

These days, I’m discovering I’m good at more than I ever imagined—writing, teaching, holding space, healing, rebuilding—but if I had to name the one thing I’ve become exceptionally good at, it’s this:

Understanding the emotional and psychological needs of my children.

And not in the generic parenting way. Not “I’m a good dad because I love my kids and show up” (although yes—I do, and I am). What I mean is: I’ve gotten really, almost instinctively good at reading what’s beneath their behavior. At seeing what they can’t say yet, and maybe don’t even fully understand themselves. That kind of knowing.

I’ve spent the last eight months immersed in child psychology, attachment theory, early childhood development, family systems, behavior patterns, trauma response, and how a parent’s emotional state impacts their children—not just in the moment, but long term. I didn’t start this journey because I thought it’d be interesting. I started it because I had to. Because I saw the cracks. I saw what was slipping through them. And I refused to let my pain become their pattern.

What I’ve learned since then has been humbling. Heartbreaking. Illuminating. And, maybe most unexpectedly—it’s been intuitive. It’s like I was clearing out noise to hear something I already knew, buried under years of trauma, performance, and exhaustion.

I now understand that a child’s meltdown isn’t manipulation—it’s unmet need. That defiance is often just fear in armor. That my regulation matters more than my reaction. That love, if it isn’t expressed in ways a child can feel, doesn’t always land as love at all.

And the shift? It’s not subtle.

The relationship I have with my children now is stronger than it’s ever been. Deeper. More mutual. More alive. And here’s the wild part—it’s even better than before my CPTSD. Back then, I thought I was present because I was physically there. Because I worked hard, stayed involved, read the bedtime stories. But what I’ve come to realize is that presence isn’t proximity. It’s attunement. It’s knowing who they are and who I am in the room with them. It’s understanding that parenting isn’t about control—it’s about co-regulation.

They talk to me now in ways I don’t think they felt safe enough to before. We repair things quickly. I say sorry. They know I mean it. They trust my consistency not because I’m perfect—but because I’m honest, and I stay.

Sometimes I still get it wrong. Sometimes I fall into old reflexes. But I catch it faster now. And when I do, I repair—not just for them, but with them. They’re learning that mistakes aren’t the end of connection. That love can be both strong and soft. That care can be quiet and still carry weight.

I never thought this would be the thing I’d become really good at.

But I’m glad it is. I’m proud of it, in a way that feels calm—not boastful, just true.

Because if all I ever become is someone who knows how to love his children well, who breaks cycles, and builds connection, and creates safety they can carry into adulthood—then that’s enough.

That’s more than enough.

And one of the most beautiful things to witness in all of this has been how it starts to come together naturally in our home.

I don’t hide the fact that I’m still learning—how to be a better parent, how to show up more fully for my kids, and how to show up for myself in this role. Not just as an individual with my own identity, but as someone who’s chosen to parent with presence, care, and intention.

Who I am—my individuality, my wiring, my weirdness—is still at the core. But parenthood isn’t separate from that. It’s woven into it. An extension of it. So when I grow, that growth spills into how I show up as a dad. It’s not compartmentalized—it’s integrated.

And what I’ve found is, when I share what I’ve learned with my kids—in little, honest ways—they grow with it. I don’t instruct. I don’t lecture. I’m not giving some emotional development TED Talk at the dinner table. I just speak to them like they matter. Like they’re capable of understanding.

Because they are.

Kids are more intuitive than we give them credit for. They don’t need everything watered down. When we share what we’re learning in ways they can actually feel—in tone, in consistency, in honesty—they adapt. They take it in. They make it their own.

Not because we demanded it.
Because we modeled it.

One of the ways I’ve seen this come to life is in the small details. Like messes.

There was a time when picking up toys felt like a battlefield. Whose mess was it? Who played with what? Whose responsibility? Endless negotiations, and LEGO landmines across the living room. I’d end up helping just to end the tension, stepping over exhaustion to get through it.

But I started modeling differently. I built systems. I showed them what care looks like. And now? They just… do it. They clean up together. They put things back where they belong. Not always, not perfectly—but consistently.

They clear their dishes after meals. They carry their cups to the sink. My son used to silently hover his water bottle in my direction when it was empty—now he fills it himself. His sister’s still figuring it out (it’s a heavy pitcher), but she’s watching.

What I see now is not just independence.
It’s interdependence.

They’re learning how to be themselves inside a shared space.
They’re learning responsibility—not through guilt, but through rhythm.
They’re learning that love shows up in little ways—quiet, repeated, consistent.

And I get to witness that.
Not because I had it all figured out
but because I stayed long enough to figure some of it out together.

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In the end, it’s not that I’m good at parenting.
It’s not that I’ve mastered the emotional needs of my children or found the perfect balance between their physical well-being and our home’s rhythm.

What I’m good at… truly, is adapting. Growing.
Learning in real-time.
Owning when something isn’t working.
Knowing that parenting isn’t about being right, or getting it right every time.
It’s about presence. Self-awareness. Willingness.

It’s about staying open enough to change, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Especially then.

So if there’s one thing I’ll claim without apology, it’s this:

I’m good at growth.
And that’s made all the difference.