You find yourself there everyday

You know the scene all too well.

Up before the sun, you’re chasing the grind while the rest of the house sleeps. The first casualty?

Those precious, irreplaceable mornings with your daughter. They said "early bird gets the worm," but no one mentioned the cost.

The work clothes feel like a second skin now, don’t they?

Old and worn, they're a daily reminder of the trade-off.

You’re the provider, the rock. But when did being the bedrock of the family start feeling like an anchor dragging you down?

There's a weight there, in the smiles you miss, in the bedtime stories that go unread because you’re still at the office when she drifts off to sleep.

You remember laughter, her laughter, a sound that’s supposed to be your reprieve, not something that comes to you in fleeting weekend moments.

You're missing the firsts, the seconds, the everythings. And for what? Another hour on the clock, another dollar in the bank.

It's this hamster wheel of modern-day fatherhood, and it's spinning faster than you can keep up.

You're told to "man up," bear the burden.

That's the job, right?

But what if the job is robbing you of the moments that actually count?

Every report you file, every meeting that could've been an email, it's time stolen from her childhood – a childhood that's slipping like sand through your overworked fingers.

The frustration isn't just yours; you see it in her eyes too.

The way she clings a little longer when you do make it home for bedtime.

She's growing, changing, and you're catching glimpses in the rearview mirror, always a step behind.

You're there, but not present, a spectator in your own life.

You’ve become that guy, the one who’s physically there at the birthday party but mentally replying to work emails.

The dad who’s more familiar with the glow of a screen than the sparkle in his daughter's eyes.

The irony? You're working this hard to give her everything, except the one thing she needs the most: you.

They say kids don't need a perfect parent, just a happy one. But happiness is scarce when every second is scheduled, every minute monetized.

You’re teaching her that time is money, but what about the times that are priceless?

It's a heavy thought, one that lingers like the last light of day.

The impact? It's tangible.

It's the little league games you hear about rather than see, the parent-teacher conferences where your chair is empty, the milestones celebrated in retrospect.

Your absence is a silent specter at every family event. You’re becoming a memory, a "remember when Dad used to..." story told to fill the void.

Your colleagues praise your dedication, but they don’t see the hollowed-out look in your eyes from missing another dance recital.

They don’t understand the trade-offs, the emotional debts accruing with every extra hour you pour into work.

This isn’t just about missed moments; it’s about a missed life. Yours and hers.

The realization stings, doesn't it?

That pang of regret when you overhear other dads talking about their weekend adventures with their kids, adventures that you can’t claim.

You’re not building forts or exploring parks. No, you're building someones company, managing the crew.

The contrasts are stark, the choices, starker.

This is no fleeting feeling. It’s a chronic ache, a gnawing guilt that eats at you because deep down, you know this isn’t the fatherhood you envisioned.

You're supposed to be her hero, not just the figure that kisses her goodbye while she's still nestled in her dreams.

And the worst part? You're not alone.

There's a brotherhood of fathers out there, caught in the same snare. Working tirelessly, trading their nows for later, only to realize later comes with its own set of missed nows.

It's a cycle, a cruel trap that promises fulfillment but delivers emptiness.

So, you tell me, when does it end? When do you step off the carousel of constant work to grasp the moments that matter? Because here's the thing: those moments aren't waiting.

They're happening, right now, without you.

This isn't a call to action, it's a reality check.

A mirror held up to the life you're leading, reflecting the life you're missing.

It's raw, it's real, and it's the story of too many dads with daughters who just want more time.

And it's time to ask yourself, what are you working for if not for the memories, for the life, for the laughter of your daughter that you're missing each and every day?

We only get one life brother. Hopefully this can be the nudge we both know you need.

Start now. Start making plans to set yourself free and to create more time for the ones that matter.

Talk soon,

Dom