I reclined on the bed of the CT machine, ready for a close-up of my heart. I’d been waiting for this moment since August when an ultrasound failed to determine if I had inherited my family’s history of heart defects. A better picture was needed.

As the machine spun around my chest, I hoped the resulting image would show nothing faulty with my ticker. After all, just three days prior, I had completed a 5K race, and last year, a half-marathon. If something was amiss with my heart, wouldn’t I have known by now, after nearly half a century of living?

The path to this moment began in June when my uncle was hospitalized. My mother started talking about our family history of heart disease and defects. I knew the stories of disease (mostly the result of lifestyle), but tales of abnormalities present at birth were news to me. She even casually mentioned she had an extra heart cusp, a disclosure that triggered my decision to get checked out.

It’s about your heart

I needed to know if I’d been born with a congenital heart defect known as a bicuspid aortic valve (BAV). As the Mayo Clinic explains, “The aortic valve is the main ‘door’ out of the heart. Blood flows through the aortic valve to exit the heart, and supplies oxygen and nutrients to the rest of the body.”

A normal valve has three leaflets or cusps. Some people are born with one, two or even four cusps (like my mother) on their aortic valve. But the most common abnormality is an aortic valve with two cusps—a bicuspid aortic valve. This condition occurs in about 1 percent of the general population and accounts for more premature deaths than all other congenital heart diseases combined.

For better or worse, we receive a multitude of inheritances from our family. Some take the form of heirlooms like an antique pocket watch, a well-worn family Bible, or vintage family photographs. Others are intangible yet no less real. Think cherished family traditions, oral histories, or the cultural rituals that tether us to our ancestors.

But there’s also the messiness of our genetic inheritance. This legacy passed down through generations includes physical traits such as eye color or height, as well as health conditions, like a congenital heart defect. This inheritance is a reminder that our bodies are not merely reflections of our own choices; they are also the result of a genetic lottery in which we have little say.

Searching for congenital heart defect

During the CT scan, a cool sensation enveloped my arm as a contrast dye coursed through the IV port in it. This technique would enhance the visibility of organs in the images. Soon after, a wave of warmth swept through my body, signaling the end of the procedure. That evening, I received the results.

My aortic valve was healthy, devoid of any signs of coronary artery disease. But there was a twist.

The genetic lottery had struck again; my valve was also bicuspid.

No one wants to hear there’s something defective about their body, especially when it involves a vital organ. My first reaction was a mix of emotions, from gratitude to having lived this long with no heart issues to a sense of concern about the implications of this diagnosis. Would I have to make any lifestyle changes? What’s my likelihood of requiring surgical intervention in the future? How soon should I have my daughter screened?

Thanks to a cardiologist (and the privilege of having access to medical care), I have answers to these questions.

Inherited condition not a destiny

In the meantime, it’s just a matter of wait and see. As I age, my defective valve could begin to degenerate sooner than expected. It may eventually leak and/or narrow causing my heart to work harder to pump blood to my body. If left untreated, this extra work could increase my risk for heart failure. But with regular check-ups and proper care, I can expect to have a normal life expectancy, as most people with this condition do. Genetic inheritance is not neccesarily one’s destiny.

At 49, I’m acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve likely seen more days now than I may see later. I’ve witnessed friends fall ill, some recovering, others passing away. I’m watching my mother age gracefully and have shouldered the responsibility of caring for my father, who died in July. I take my recent diagnosis as another reminder to live fully in the moment, to not delay dreams and passions, to seize the present.

As fathers, we often reflect on the legacy we’re passing down to our children through our choices and actions. While we can’t change the genetic traits we’ve inherited, we can choose how we manage and navigate them. By staying on top of our health, we enrich our lives and set a profound example for our children, modeling the importance of self-care, resilience, and the determination to live to the fullest.

That’s an inheritance any child would be proud to receive.

Operating on congential heart defect photo by Olga Guryanova on Unsplash

Announced by the clatter of a vintage typewriter, a text message from my wife illuminated my phone. The message contained photographic proof of a mission accomplished: our daughter’s ears were now pierced.

In the photo, she stood in profile, her hair pulled back, a tiny earring adorning her left lobe. A stud, crafted in the form of a red heart outlined in gold, glinted in the light.

When my daughter returned home, her face beaming with excitement, she rushed over to me.

“Daddy, I was so brave!”

“Yes, you certainly were, sweetie.”

Bravery has been a consistent theme of late with my daughter. It started this past spring when she expressed her desire to conquer the water by learning how to swim. This led to “Swim Girl Summer,” the name we gave the season in a nod to her weekly swim lessons.

But now, with her ear lobes properly punctured, our daughter has ushered in a new era: Fly Girl Fall.

‘Mommy, I’m ready to be brave.’

The seeds of this season were planted in the months leading up to her 9^th birthday in August.

My daughter dug through her avalanche of toys and trinkets to unearth a pair of purple clip-on earrings shaped like butterflies that a friend gifted her. She’d stopped wearing them months earlier, but was suddenly sporting them as if they were prized possessions. Her fascination with earrings reached a point where she started using a glue stick to affix pink beads to her earlobes—and proudly wearing them beyond the confines of our home.

Sometimes our children show us better than they can tell us. It was obvious she wanted her ears pierced.

My wife had postponed getting our daughter’s ears pierced when she was a baby. She feared the earrings might appear disproportionate to the size of our daughter’s head, an effect she humorously likened to resembling “Frankenstein.” And as our daughter grew older, we wondered if she could tolerate the piercing procedure and the subsequent healing period. But after my wife explained that getting her ears pierced may be uncomfortable, our daughter declared, “Mommy, I’m ready to be brave.”

So my wife scheduled the piercing appointment for the first Saturday in August as a birthday gift.

Reflection of child’s unique personality

As parents, we often find ourselves marking our children’s growth by traditional developmental milestones. We wait eagerly for them to take their first steps, say their first words, and lose their first tooth. These milestones are important, of course, but the true markers of growth aren’t confined to developmental timelines. They’re reflected in a child’s unique personality and the choices they make.

I came to see that my daughter’s desire for pierced ears was not just about keeping up with her friends or being like Mommy. It was an expression of her individuality.

Our daughter, who has autism, has always been a determined and independent spirit. “Self-directed” is how her developmental pediatrician once described her. From a young age, she approached challenges with the tenacity of a boxer, a trait that has always stuck with me because I was wearing a Muhammad Ali shirt the day she was born. Whether learning to tie her shoes or how to regulate her big emotions, she’s tackled each task in her own way. Getting her ears pierced was just another manifestation of her growing into her own person.

In a world that often fits children into predefined boxes, my daughter is beginning to forge her own path. It’s in the songs she chooses to sing, the books she chooses to read, and now, the earrings she chooses to wear.

Whenever I look at that photo of my daughter’s freshly pierced ears, I feel pride for the confident young girl she’s becoming. But also a touch of wistfulness for the days when she was small enough to cradle in my arms.

I replied to my wife’s text message with a heart emoji. The little red heart outlined in gold hanging from my daughter’s ear is not just an earring. It’s a symbol of her blossoming individuality, a reminder that she’s finding her own place in the world, one small choice at a time.

Photo contributed by the Briggs family.

Clad in a hot pink swim cap and matching goggles, my daughter waded into Lane Six of the pool. She grabbed a barbell-shaped floaty and pushed off. With assistance from an instructor, she attempted to flutter kick with her body extended like a mermaid.

Her legs flailed about, splashing water all over her instructor’s face. She weaved in and out of the lane like a drunk driver in traffic. This first swim lesson was a far cry from The Little Mermaid and more like The Little Engine That Could. Nevertheless, I cheered as if she were my own little Ariel.

Welcome to Swim Girl Summer. That’s been the seasonal moniker around our household ever since my daughter started swim lessons a month ago.

For months she’s hinted in a not-so-subtle way at her desire to conquer the water. Every time Wheel of Fortune flashed a vacation prize package with a brochure-worthy image of a resort with a pool on our TV, my daughter would ask, “Can we go to the beach and the pool, pleazzzze?” To which my wife would say, “Yes, but you need to learn how to swim first.”

Of course, that’s the response she was hoping for. We played right into her hands.

And we didn’t mind.

Drowning statistics spur swim lessons

Swim lessons are something we’ve wanted for her. It would give her another tool to help her navigate life. Giving our daughter, who is Black and autistic, the lifelong gift of swimming was not only a recreational nicety but also, to us, a matter of life and death.

Drowning is the leading cause of accidental death for autistic children of all ages. They face a higher risk of drowning due to a tendency to wander off, according to data from the National Library of Medicine. And when it comes to race, a study commissioned by the USA Swimming Foundation found more startling facts. Nearly 64 percent of Black children, 45 percent of Hispanic children and 40 percent of white children have no or low swimming ability, it found, putting them all at risk for drowning.

Our daughter first took swim lessons as a toddler at the local YMCA and learned water safety in between, but that seemed like eons ago compared to the sprouting 8-year-old she is now. With each new aquatic milestone, my daughter is swimming against the tide of those sobering statistics.

Sometimes you motor, sometimes you float

During her weekly swim lessons, my wife and I sit with other parents in a viewing area behind a large, glass-paneled wall looking out onto the pool. It’s like peering into a giant fishbowl full of kids — all ages, sizes and abilities — as they splish and splash in the shadow of a colorful mural that reads, “The Big Blue World.”

My daughter is always in Lane Six. From my vantage point, I’ve seen her confidence build as she taps her inner Michael Phelps. Sometimes she swims ahead of the other kids in her lane; other times, she stays behind. Sometimes she extends her arms in front of her; other times, they’re bent from fatigue. Her leg kicks are so powerful on occasion that she resembles a motorboat amid the shimmer and bubbles; then there are occasions when a leisurely cruise is just her speed. No matter what, she’s constantly moving forward.

It’s a bit surreal to watch my daughter both succeed and struggle from behind the glass. She can’t hear us, but we speak to her as if she can. (Good job, sweetie. Come on, push through. You got this.) She can see us, but doesn’t pay attention to us; she’s usually laser-focused on the instructor. But I know she feels us with her. She occasionally looks up from the pool with her big toothy grin and waves until we wave back.

There are moments in this Big Blue World when the father in me wants to rush to the other side and coach her. However, I know it’s best for my daughter to figure things out for herself. I won’t always be there.

Perhaps that’s my own lesson this Swim Girl Summer. As my daughter grows older, parenting will often feel like a never-ending toggle between knowing when to dive in and when to stay ashore. I just hope I’m preparing her enough to swim in the world beyond the pool.

All photos by Johnathon Briggs.

The house had been quiet for half an hour, the air so still I could hear the high-pitched motor of the condensate pump in the downstairs utility closet humming through the air vents upstairs. The only hint of life came from the occasional swoosh of traffic out on the street. A sense of calm settled over me.

I was experiencing something unusual for a parent: a moment to myself.

For the first time in what felt like months, nothing and no one demanded my time and attention. There was no calamity to contend with, no housework to be done, no emails or texts in need of reply, no bills immediately due, no homework to be done, no dinner to be cooked, no child to be shuttled to and fro, no appointments to schedule, no phone calls to return, and no honey-dos to, well, do.

The world of endless demands had come to a temporary halt. I was damn near giddy.

My wife had left for work that Monday morning, taking our daughter with her to drop off at school. I stayed home, grateful for the privilege to telecommute, and another full half hour before I had to plug back into The Matrix.

Like the character Neo from the movie franchise, I began to see my thoughts as binary code forms of zeros and ones rather than their surface-level appearance. A moment of clarity seized me.

I’d been saying yes when I should have said no.

I didn’t just need a vacation. I needed a sabbatical.

It wasn’t just being tired from adulting; I was burned out as a caregiver.

Relieve the everyday stress, every day

It’s a byproduct of multiple stressors. Raising a special needs child with little family support. Supporting a spouse through long stretches of unemployment. Having a fulfilling yet demanding career. Joining the ranks of the “sandwich generation,” those 30- and 40-somethings who are raising children while caring for aging parents. You make sacrifices over the years to shoulder the load, to carry on, to do all that needs to be done, only to realize you’ve neglected to prioritize the most important component in the equation: you.

It reminds me of the ubiquitous Internet quote from author Alexander Den Heijer: “You often feel tired, not because you’ve done too much, but because you’ve done too little of what sparks a light in you.”

Why do some of us in our roles as fathers, husbands, parents and caregivers find it so difficult to practice self-care? I don’t just mean the glitter-speak notions of yoga, spa days, and walks in the park (I’m game for those, by the way). I mean the practice of taking time to simply exist with no expectation of doing something or getting something done. What has happened to the habit of pausing the busyness of our lives long enough to examine how we ended up with so much to do in the first place?

This is especially true for men. Research released in 2021 showed: 

• 23% of men spend less than 30 minutes a day on activities that relax, de-stress and recharge themselves.
• 44% of men report “they could do a better job of taking care of themselves.”
• 83% of men agree that they do not worry about self-care since they don’t think it’s important.

Researchers and experts say men think of self-care practices as either feminine or unnecessarily self-indulgent. This prevents men from reaching an optimal level of healthiness, mental and physical, to help them meet the demands parenthood, work and life bring.

The moment I realized

So, like death and taxes, the exhaustion of life comes for us all — man or woman, parent or childless. But this unexpected hour of stillness helped me tune in to what sustains me.

There I sat at my home office desk, looking at the photos lining it. These snapshots are of the people, past and present, family and friends, who anchor my life.

There’s my cheerful daughter posing pretty in pink in a second-grade portrait. There’s my lovely wife flashing a smile as we walk through a nature park in Jamaica. Just over from her, I see my uncle Johnny, the pigeon fancier, in a loft tending to his birds. Next, I see my mother embracing 7-year-old me from behind as we stand in front of a grocery store display. Over there is my fraternity brother at his MBA graduation with his beaming parents. And there’s my grandmother in her younger years, footloose and fancy-free, strutting her stuff at a club. Reflecting on these memories tapped into the abundance of love in my life.

Filled with a deep sense of gratitude, I opened my work laptop and logged in.

I again felt ready to re-enter The Matrix.

Take a moment photo: © Antonioguillem / Adobe Stock.

My journey into the world of AI-generated art began two weeks before Thanksgiving. I sat down in front of my computer to experiment with Midjourney, an artificial intelligence program that creates images from text descriptions. I entered the command “/imagine” and a message from the Midjourney bot appeared: “There are endless possibilities …”

Excited, I typed out the image in my mind:

A young african american man wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, is flying through the clouds and space as if in a dream.

Midjourney generated four versions that the beloved painter and art instructor Bob Ross might have called “happy little accidents.” In each, the clouds look like unruly cotton balls. The man has no discernible face. He also does everything but fly through the clouds: he walks on them, sits on them, or has his head lost in them. The images were garbage.

After a few days of studying the text-to-image prompts of other users, I refined my descriptions. Finally, through trial and error, I learned how to guide AI to generate images closer to my vision. I’ve turned my daughter into Princess Leia, myself into a guardian angel, and reimagined Santa Claus as Batman.

AI-Generated art and Black fatherhood

As a Black dad who blogs, I was curious to see how AI imagines fatherhood. One day I typed: young african american father holding sleeping baby, illustration. Midjourney produced four touching images that evoked my early, sleep-deprived days of dadhood when I cradled my daughter in my arms to help her fall asleep. I posted one of the images to Instagram and titled it “The Whole World in His Hands.”

The comments from other Black dads were positive. I imagine they felt seen.

That inspired me to create more AI-generated art drawing from my own experiences or those of fathers I know. I made images of Black dads teaching their sons how to tie a necktie. Reading books with their children. On date nights with their spouses. Spending time with their daughters. Essentially, Black dads being present in the lives of their loved ones. Images that are all contrary to the “absentee father” myth prevalent in news media, politics, and pop culture.

I would occasionally forget to use the descriptor “African American” before “father” in my image prompts and Midjourney would, predictably, generate images with white fathers. It didn’t bother me at first. But after the second and third time, I started thinking, “Why aren’t Black fathers included in AI’s default definition of fatherhood?”

So I did an experiment. I typed “fatherhood” into Midjourney 10 times. The bot generated four images each time creating 40 images of what it was programmed to associate with fatherhood.

Only one image was of a Black father. One out of 40.

And none appeared to be people of color.

According to AI, the default image of “fatherhood” is a white father holding or hugging a child.

“I am invisible”

The issue of bias in image generation systems shouldn’t be surprising. As digital artist and academic Nettrice Gaskins noted in a recent Instagram post: “The processes by which machines learn to recognize images is like how humans see things. Neural nets are fed millions of images from databases; they use input from humans to classify and sort image data and come up with probabilities of what the final images will be. Artists can change the parameters for how a network or system identifies, recognizes, and processes these images, which gives them a certain amount of power to influence or make decisions about which images are generated.”

Still, it felt like the kind of distortion Ralph Ellison famously described in his 1952 novel Invisible Man: “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination — indeed, everything and anything except me.”

Representation matters. It matters because it validates experiences and lifts aspirations.

That’s the reminder I’m taking with me into February — Black History Month — as I continue my artistic adventure with Midjourney. As Gaskins encouraged, I have the power to influence the images generated by AI. I have the power to widen the visual representation of Black fatherhood.

“There are endless possibilities …”

My daughter has never eaten a hamburger. Or pizza. Or chicken nuggets. In fact, she’s never had a smorgasbord of foods most 8-year-olds devour with abandon: grilled cheese, hot dogs, spaghetti, mac and cheese, and — my personal favorite — tacos. Who doesn’t love a good taco?

Oh sure, she may sniff, touch, and occasionally lick these foods. But to actually bite, chew, and swallow it? Well, that’s just asking too much.

My daughter is more than just a picky eater. She’s what feeding experts call a “resistant eater.” This means she eats just 10 to 15 foods (or fewer), limits her food groups (to mostly carbs), and often expresses disapproval, sometimes with a harrumph, over the presence of a new food on her plate.

This food fussiness stems from my daughter’s autism, which makes her uncomfortable with changes in routine. Adding to it is a sensory processing disorder (SPD), a neurological condition that causes difficulties with processing information from the five senses: taste, sight, touch, smell and hearing.

The SPD manifests as a preference for snacks with a crunchy texture and bold flavor. For her, these are smoked Gouda Triscuits, barbeque quinoa chips, cheddar Pringles, and, her mainstay, white cheddar popcorn. The autism appears as a need for certain foods to always be the same brand. I once bought my daughter SkinnyPop white cheddar popcorn instead of the usual Smartfood brand because it was on sale. When I pulled the popcorn from the grocery bag, she took one look at the unfamiliar green and white packaging and uttered, “No, Daddy.”

Fussy eating appears during solid food introduction

While there are no reliable statistics on the feeding and eating problems of autistic children, one widely reported study found they are five times more likely to face mealtime challenges — from narrow food selection to rigid eating behaviors — than their typically developing peers.

When my daughter was diagnosed as autistic in 2017, shortly before her third birthday, I focused less on what went into her mouth and more on what was coming out of it — hardly any discernible words. I didn’t know much about the connection between autism and eating habits.

My daughter’s unique palette and pickiness began to emerge at 6 months old. This was when my wife first introduced her to solid food: yogurt, apple sauce, assorted baby foods, cereal, pears (which always ended up on the floor), and even pico de gallo (she apparently liked the light kick of jalapeño).

There was the occasional bite of a pork chop here, a forkful of blueberry pancake there. But, as our daughter grew older, she never really took to eating a broad variety of foods. At 13 months she consistently drank milk from a sippy cup, and that was only after my wife successfully transitioned her from formula in a bottle — a change our daughter mightily resisted.

To ensure our daughter got the proper helping of nutrients, my wife started mixing the milk with varieties of Naked Juice, a brand of fruit and vegetable smoothies. That eventually evolved into a blend of Naked Juice and Greek yogurt (packed with protein and probiotics) for her school lunches. I jokingly refer to these smoothie blends as the “Elixir of Life” because without them I’m certain our daughter wouldn’t be thriving or hitting her growth and weight targets. In my daughter’s words, “Smoothies are very tasty at lunch and recess.”

Still, getting your child to eat shouldn’t be this complicated.

Strategies for combating a resistant eater

Doctors confirmed our daughter didn’t have swallowing or gastrointestinal issues, but that didn’t relieve my constant worry about her nutritional intake. Can she continue to thrive on such a limited diet? Am I packing enough food in her lunch box to last the school day? Will she ever outgrow these food aversions?

I reached out to my daughter’s therapists for tips and advice. Through them, I learned just how complicated the act of eating is. It involves 26 muscles, eight sensory systems, six cranial nerves to chew and swallow, and engages every organ in your body. As speech-language pathologist Judy McCrary Koeppen notes in The Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism: “Eating is a multisensory experience. Each mouthful brings the possibility of a variety of flavors, textures, and temperatures.”

Whatever you do, they said, never withhold food or physically force a child to eat. That will only make things worse for a resistant eater, a picky eater or any child.

So we began with “food chaining.” You start with a child’s preferred food and gradually “chain” together similar foods with slight changes or variations until you get to the new food. For example, go from chips to crackers to crackers with a sweet topping to chocolate pudding. We did the best we could. Our lack of time and patience, though, caused us to abandon this tactic.

Then we tried bribery. Our daughter could earn iPad screen time if she tried a new food. It worked for a few weeks (I recall her taking bites of broccoli and salmon), but her motivation waned.

We knew consistency would be key to overcoming the limitations of our resistant eater. We worked with our daughter’s behavioral therapist to add a feeding component to her therapy sessions. Three times a week my wife and I pack a new (or less preferred) food for the therapist to try with our daughter. Eating is the goal, but touching and licking the food also counts as success.

Every time the therapist reports our daughter actually ate something new, I do a happy dance. So far she’s taken a liking to baby carrots, apple slices, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When you’re the parent of a resistant eater, you celebrate every victory, no matter how small.

Sharing a meal socially helps

My wife and I build on our daughter’s progress at home by offering her the same food we’re eating, even if we think she’ll refuse it.

My Italian sausage lasagna? Nope.

My wife’s savory beef chili? Declined.

One day my wife offered her rice with salted butter. She ate it and asked for it again later that month. The week before that, our daughter requested orange juice. My wife and I looked at each other with an expression that read, “Who’s child is this?”

With each bite of new food, our daughter is maturing as an eater. Just as some people are social drinkers, we’re learning our daughter is a social eater. She’s a bubbly chatterbox now and loves participating in occasions that involve food — birthday parties, holiday dinners, family outings. She just happens to bring her own smoothies and snacks to the table.

Last autumn a friend invited us over for dinner with his family. I warned him my daughter may not eat what was served. When the chicken lettuce wraps arrived at the table, to my amazement, she grabbed one and took a few bites before retreating to her snack tote. Months earlier, at a dinner party, she casually snacked on tortilla chips and mixed nuts like it was no big deal. But indeed, it was.

I used to think my daughter, as a resistant eater, was missing out on moments because she was missing out on the food. That’s because my own childhood memories are intertwined with the scents and tastes of dishes prepared with love. The gooey and decadent German chocolate cake my mother made. The tangy sweet peach cobbler with the gloriously buttery crust baked by my grandmother. My great-grandmother’s New Year’s Day meal of collard greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread for good luck in the new year.

I’m realizing that as long as my daughter is connecting with the people around the table, she’ll never miss out on love, joy, and laughter even if she is munching from a different menu.

She’ll join in when she’s ready.

Seated at a table this past spring in the courtyard of a nursing home, I squeezed into the frame of my iPhone camera and snapped a selfie with my parents. In this fifth decade of my life, it’s the only photo I have of the three of us together. It’s among my most valuable possessions.

This family portrait is neither flattering nor joyous. My mom and I are covered head to toe in the garb required of nursing home visitors in this Age of Corona. A face mask covers our noses and mouths. A curved face shield extends from our foreheads to our chins. From the neck down, we’re draped in a flimsy gown of blue plastic that if it were yellow, could easily pass for the infamous hazmat suits from “Breaking Bad.”

My dad, 90, is in the center of the scene, clad in a faded navy blue polo, smiling as a big as he can despite missing teeth and oxygen tubes running from his nose. His thin, frail body has been ravaged by time and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, but it’s clear he’s happy to be with us in this moment — he mustered the strength to sit upright and pose.

It’s a family portrait that had been in the making since 1974, the year I was born.

No pictures exist of me and my dad before 2006, the year I concluded my journey to find him, arriving in the lobby of a senior housing complex in Inglewood, Calif., where he anxiously waited to greet me.

He was 74 at the time; I was 31. I’d last seen him when I was six years old. It was the only time I’d seen him. And it had been 25 years.

My dad missed out on becoming a father. He met my mother in 1973. They carried on a relationship for two months, maybe longer. Then, she stopped coming by his place.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant when she left. I really didn’t,” my dad once told me, reflecting on the memory. In 1981, when I was 6, my mother arrived unannounced at his home — with me in tow. She was married by then but apparently felt it was important for us to meet. That was the last time I saw my dad.

When we reconnected a quarter century later, my dad took those first awkward lurches toward a bond with me, those wobbly steps at becoming a father. During our first Father’s Day conversation, he shared stories about going fishing with a favorite uncle and hunting raccoons and soft-shell turtles as a young boy.

As I’ve gotten to know my father over the past 15 years, he’s shared his discomfort with being called “dad” — he says doesn’t feel worthy of the title. Instead, he prefers I call him by his military nickname, “Watashi,” Japanese for “I.” It’s how his friends greet him.

Where my father was out of the picture, my mother was front and center. For nearly every milestone moment in my life — the day I was born, my favorite childhood Christmas, my college graduation, my wedding day — there is photographic evidence of her anchoring presence, from holding me swaddled in her arms at the hospital to dabbing tears from her eyes as my wife and I exchanged vows in a Hawaiian garden.

Now here she was with me, visiting Watashi in the twilight of his life while bringing closure to a piece of her past.

Photos are memories you can touch. And the memory that eluded me most was a photo of me with my parents, a family portrait. It took 46 years, eight months, and six days —from the day I was born to that nursing home visit in May — for the timelines of our lives to finally intersect, placing us in the same place, at the same time. As it turned out, when I was growing up in Los Angeles, my father never lived more than six miles away from me and my mom.

The layered and complex narrative behind my one and only family portrait is what makes it so priceless to me. It represents the culmination of the steps I took as a man to find my father and fill the holes in my origin story.

But my photo also reminds me of something else: the important role dads play in documenting family life.

From camcorders in the 1980s to the camera phones of today, I’ve witnessed fathers joyously capture everything from baby christenings and weddings to family holidays and exotic vacations. The technology of this digital age allows us to snap scores of photos and video clips with the press of a thumb and edit (or delete) them on the spot. At times, we have to remember to simply live in the moment instead of fussing over how to get the perfect shot or angle, something I’m totally guilty of myself.

All I ask is that you fit as many people into the frame as possible—mothers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, cousins, good friends and, last but not least, yourself. There will no doubt be one photo in the bunch that will come to mean the world to your loved ones, today or years from now.

Don’t let it take 46 years to make.

I knew in advance of the interview that the question would be asked, but it still startled me when it was. Few Black fathers have a ready-made answer to: “When will you speak to your child about race? And what will you tell her?”

This question came about in February, three months before the police killing of George Floyd, as part of a project I participated in exploring Black fatherhood. In the months since, it has echoed in my mind as the Black Lives Matter movement has commanded global attention and my daughter hits a new milestone: her sixth birthday.

With each passing birthday, my daughter moves closer to the age I was when my mother sat me down to have The Talk, that unfortunately necessary conversation — the first of many — that Black parents often have with their children about race, racism and how to navigate a society that does not always see you as fully human. That this is a familiar rite of passage in Black families speaks volumes about the systemic and generational dehumanization that African Americans endure.

The Talk defined and in practice

The Talk covers all manner of indignities and scenarios: the first time you were called the n-word; what to do when you’re pulled over by police; how to respond to being followed by a store employee who suspects you’re a shoplifter because of your race. The list goes on.

In my case, nothing particularly dramatic had happened. My mother must have sensed it was time for me, at the age of 8, to be introduced to the concept of racial difference given the two worlds I inhabited in 1983 as a third-grader: the predominantly Black neighborhood of South-Central Los Angeles where I lived and the then predominantly white suburb of Northridge in the San Fernando Valley, where my elementary school was located.

During the week, I’d ride a school bus 40 minutes from South-Central to the Valley in pursuit of a better education. My mother decided to have me bused under a voluntary Los Angeles Unified School District program to integrate schools. The program, which effectively dismantled mandatory busing, allowed minority parents the option of busing their children to predominantly white schools. My mother seized the opportunity. At its peak in 1984, about 23,000 students were bused under the voluntary program. I was one of them.

My mother, born and partly raised in the Black neighborhood of Greenville in segregated 1960s Mississippi, later told me she believed the educational opportunities in the Valley superior. She also she wanted me to gain exposure to people of different cultures.

But she also apparently wanted to be sure I was grounded in my own.

I recall my mother sitting down with me in our apartment and explaining that the shades of skin tone among the people in our neighborhood — brown sugar, coconut, honey iced tea, golden yellow — reflected the diversity of those who identified as Black, our racial-ethnic group.

“You’re Black,” my mother said, as if preparing me to understand how other people might first see me.

“No, I’m yellow,” I countered, using the word my family often used to describe my fair skin tone. She laughed.

My mother, a librarian at the time, explained in her version of The Talk that Black people have a rich history and culture, but are often discriminated against because they are different. As a result, they have been engaged in a long struggle for equality embodied by the civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. I knew who King was. As a second-grader, I was awarded the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Award for “contributing to the spirit and the dream of a better world for all people.” I can’t recall what I did to earn this award, but vaguely recall drawing a crayon portrait of King and writing a short statement about his life.

How mother’s words changed my life

And then, with a deep sense of reverence, she described the Civil Rights Movement — what Black people were fighting for (equal treatment and opportunity) and against (discrimination and violence) and how King had a dream we would one day live in a nation where people would “not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

I’d never heard my mother speak before with such passion. Her words made me feel both proud and angry.

Proud to be Black. Not less than. Not ashamed. Proud.

But angry at the unfairness of it all.

Both feelings are rooted in the knowledge of one’s own history, which may explain why years later in college one of my majors was history and I became a student activist.

You don’t realize the implications of how your parents raised you until you become a parent yourself. By introducing me to a racialized view of the world grounded in a history of striving and resistance, my mother inoculated me with a sense of pride against the virulent nature of racist beliefs and actions that I had yet to encounter. She helped keep my self-esteem intact.

So, the next time I’m asked about when will I speak my child about race and what will I tell her, I will follow my mother’s example.

I will speak to my daughter when I feel she’s ready to bear the burden of racial awareness.

I will tell her, “We’re all different in our own ways, but equal: equal in rights and equally deserving of respect and kindness.”

I will tell her about the history of her people and the stories of individuals within our family who overcame adversity to not just survive, but thrive.

But most of all, I will imbue her with a sense of hope that one day The Talk will no longer be necessary.

The Talk photo: © fizkes / Adobe Stock.

“Let it go,” my wife instructs whenever she catches me in front of the mirror of our bathroom vanity, pinching my jiggly love handles. I’m staring at the reflection of a body in transition.

I’d heard about the softer side of fatherhood – the research that links declines in testosterone and muscle mass to becoming a father – but I never thought adding one word to my identity (dad) would introduce a two-word certainty: dad bod.

You may recall the term’s explosion into pop culture in 2015. Clemson University sophomore Mackenzie Pearson published an article that went viral, titled “Why Girls Love the Dad Bod,” in which she claimed women are more attracted to men whose physiques are “a nice balance between a beer gut and working out” than gents with washboard abs. (Step aside, Joe Six-Pack.)

But as I approach the age of 45, I’m realizing dad bods are less about what women want and more about how a man sees himself in relation to what he once was and what he aspires to be.

Dad bod creeps in

The first signs of my dad bod appeared in the fall of 2014, shortly after the birth of my daughter, Emarie. The preferred notch on my belt seemed snugger than usual, thanks to a bit of squish around the waist that I chalked up to the sleep deprivation and questionable meal choices that mark the rite of passage for legions of new parents. I also had just turned 40, a milestone age that is known to mess with many a metabolism.

Life went on, but I refused to accept that me and dad bod were becoming a thing.

I ran charity 5Ks. I experimented with intermittent fasting. I lifted weights. But with each passing year of fatherhood and marriage, the outline of my abs slowly morphed into a miniature muffin top.

By the time Emarie was 2 years old, she had taken to resting her head on the pillow-like softness of my belly. She loved the fluffiness of it all. Me? Not so much. As a dad, I wanted to look and feel like a protector, a parental Guardian of the Galaxy. Fatherly flab was not part of my mental picture.

Then shortly before my 44th birthday, a small fold of fatty flesh developed under my chin. Sort of a gently sloping sag resembling a hammock between trees. I noticed my post-workout body aches and stiffness lingered longer than usual. And unruly gray hairs started appearing with regularity in new or unexpected places: my eyebrows, my nose, my chin, my temples, the crown of my head, and even my neck. For the first time, in a physically tangible way, I could see and feel myself aging.

More around the middle, mid-life

It seemed no coincidence these physical changes mirrored the dramatic shifts unfolding in my mid-life. My wife and I bought our first single-family home, concluding a gauntlet of paperwork, anxiety and excitement. I quit my job as a vice president at a public relations firm and started a new gig with a global company. And after a year of navigating the health insurance labyrinth, we secured autism therapy for our daughter only to face a challenge common to parents of special needs children: transitioning to new routines.

Through it all, my body changed and adapted to the season of life I found myself in. It did so in sickness and health, in good times and in bad, through poor sleep and deep worry, without complaint or reservation as revealed by the clean bills of health that came after annual physical exams. A sense of gratitude grew within me about the resiliency of my body in the face of life’s challenges.

It dawned on me that my strive to be fit is neither a desperate clinging to fleeting youth nor an attachment to a beach body aesthetic. It’s a rejection of the “dad bod” trope as reflected in this irreverent definition in Urban Dictionary: “The type of physique a man ‘earns’ when the increasing pressures of work life, married life, and especially fatherhood no longer allow him the time or drive to maintain a hard, toned figure. As a result, what was once a sculpted, chiseled frame digresses into a soft, flabby heaping pile of I Don’t Give A Sh*t Anymore.”

To be sure, I don’t expect to return to the lean runner’s body of my college days or the svelte waistline of my 30s. I just rebuff the idea that I’ve let myself go.

I still give a sh*t.

Dad bod assessment and acceptance

For me, dad bod is now about shedding societal ideals of manhood and physical virility – visible abs, thick chest, broad back, muscular arms and legs – so that I can make room for the man I am becoming, one who understands, to quote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, that “what is essential is invisible to the eye”: love, trust, faith, friendship, empathy, honor.

I don’t appear to be alone. A 2018 nationally representative survey commissioned by the gym chain Planet Fitness found that “sixty-two percent of men with dad bods feel that having one has improved their lives. These men feel less concerned with their appearance (43 percent), are more accepting of themselves (42 percent) and are more confident (25 percent).”

It’s body positivity at its finest.

My friends in public health may caution against embracing dad bod as the new male norm, pointing to research that shows excess abdominal fat increases the risk of death from heart disease. It’s an important, sobering point that has all the sway of an old-school “The More You Know” public service announcement. It needs an update.

As I see it, saying yes to dad bod means saying yes to self-care, the kind of care men especially don’t do enough, the sort that can help prevent disease because it encourages making time each day for your body – and mind. That could be time to hit the gym, to rest, to eat healthier, to take a long drive, to be with those you love, to play a sport, to get a massage, to practice meditation or even make that long-delayed medical appointment – whatever it is that helps you be the best version of yourself. That version may have a few extra pounds. It may not run as fast as it once did or be as strong. But it’s here. And being here for ourselves and our families is the essence of Dad Bod.

“Chase me! Chase me! Please! Pretty pleeeeease!” my daughter Emarie, now 4, screams excitedly. The ritual is always the same. I stand up, raise my hands, curl my fingers into claws, and growl like a bear (she likes that part). Then off we go. Running through the kitchen, over the living room sofa, down the steps of our split level, and finally to the family room futon where she tries to evade my tickles by hiding headfirst under a blanket. She doesn’t care how I look, just as long as I’m there.

Dad bod photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash