Month: June 2025

Cassandra Di Lalla (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

I wish that my father was still roaming the earth, because I feel there were so many words left unsaid and so many things left undone. It isn’t because my father and I didn’t talk or didn’t see each other; in fact, it was the polar opposite of that. We were very close—he was and he is my best friend.

When my father passed away from cardiac arrest, my entire world came crashing down. He took a big part of me up with him to Heaven because he was the blood in my veins, the heart in my chest, my everything. He was the first man I ever loved.

I’d tell him a million times a day how much I love him, to always make sure he’s safe and to always take the best care of himself. I’d always wish him a beautiful day ahead, hoping that life would treat him well with every sunrise through to sunset and everywhere in between. 

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that I’m doing everything I can to get far in life in the best possible way that I know I can.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say how happy I am to spend my days with him, no matter what we end up doing.

I wish he knew and understood the positive impact he had in my life.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that his vulnerability with me was impactful. He didn’t open up much to anyone, nor did he show much emotion with anyone other than me. I was daddy’s little girl, and our father-daughter relationship was powerful. My father was living proof that love is patient, kind and humble . . . but capable of so much because it’s so strong, even when there are times where you feel you’re unable to express it to someone in words.

My father is the very reason I allow myself to be loved by my partner . . . because my father showed me that love should be painless, effortless and unconditional—in the good times, the bad and the ugly. Love is boundless. He taught me that I’m deserving of love and care even when I’m struggling. I would go to my dad for just about everything, because I felt heard and understood. I wasn’t afraid of opening up to my dad because I knew there was never any judgement. He was and will always remain the best father in my eyes. I can’t even count on both hands the amount of times I’ve told him how much I value him.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that I forgive him for his mistakes and that fatherhood is difficult, full of surprises and sometimes bad decisions. But through it all, I still saw the perfect father.

My father didn’t deserve to die from cardiac arrest. He didn’t deserve to die at all. Especially not from something that was completely out of his control. I did CPR on him and I tried with every fibre of my being to revive him without success, and I carry that very heavy weight and guilt with me everywhere I go. I miss him. I’m hurting without him.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that I’ll continue to do my best no matter what happens, because that’s what I’m doing . . . my very best. 

I’ve blamed myself every single day since his passing; it feels like yesterday but it was so many yesterdays ago.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that I’m grateful that he’s the reason I’m able to speak up for myself and not hold back, especially if I’m being disrespected in any way.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say, “Dad, please stop it!” more often every time he’d say, “You know, Cassandra, when I’m gone . . .” I’d always get angry when he’d say that, because I was afraid that he was trying to send me a subliminal message or insinuating something. I’d get very upset and I’d tear up because, of course, I feared losing him. That fear became a reality and it replays in my head day in and day out.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say “I’m sorry, Daddy” more often for every petty argument, because none of that mattered, but I regret ever having these disagreements because now I can’t even talk to him or hear his voice. I wish I would have just shut my mouth, walked away to take a breather and returned with an apology and a hug. I mean, I did . . . always . . . but I wish those arguments wouldn’t have happened in the first place. These things just stick with me and I can’t let them go.

I wish he was still alive to hear me say that his love and support are what gave me the will to live despite having to face unimaginable circumstances and challenges in my life.

I wish my father was still alive to hear me say “I love you” one last time.

—

Cassandra Di Lalla lives life purposefully. She enjoys reading, writing and mental health initiatives. She’s an animal lover for life and an innovative individual always finding new ways to create.

 

Mahsa Sheikh, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

Please note that this piece contains general reference to a trial involving sexual violence.

The love we receive from the ones who nurtured and supported us in childhood is the most unforgettable of all loves. We cannot simply let go of the memories we had with people who took the time to resolve our emotional distress, guided us to look at things through a different lens, and showed us the light at the end of the tunnel that is time; people who despite a dearth of means or opportunities, worked day and night to provide for us, and give us the chances we would have never had, had it not been for their initiative and dedication; people whose light and love warmed us and gave us power to face seemingly insurmountable obstacles as we grew up.

I can not speak for others, nor even try to, but fathers are often immediately associated with those aforementioned qualities among their children. This does not mean that we live in a world where patriarchy is a thing of the past. As I write this, I am thinking of Mazan mass rape trial in France. During the trial, Gisèle Pelicot defied patriarchy and was catapulted to the status of a feminist hero after her decision to hold the trial in public to catalyze debate about rape culture. While spaces to talk about issues regarding sexual violence or toxic masculinity are felt and much-needed, it is also vital to find ways to revere figures under whose auspices our intellect, sensibilities and desire for success were conceived.

When I was nine, my father had a horrid stroke that left him paralyzed. The news of his stroke was broken to us over the phone while we were still vacationing at my aunt’s house in the north. The next morning my mother rushed us back to Tehran on the earliest inter-urban bus available in town. When we arrived, a rather disorderly and chaotic household was waiting for us: loads of dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, and the garden flowers were lying in oblivion and looked wilted, parched or half-alive. I spent the following few days taking care of the meals and the dishes while eyeing the cherry red door at the end of our yard where the branches of an old willow tree danced under the afternoon summer breeze. I was waiting for the second my father would appear in the doorway, wishing he would bring things back to the old order. None of us could tell what was in store for us. Feelings of uncertainty and unease were both overwhelming and deeply unsettling.

The day my father was discharged from the hospital, either a Tuesday or a Wednesday, two of my uncles helped him out of the cherry red Paykan and laid him on a bed prepared for him near the hallway, so he would be able to walk to the toilets located at the far corner of the yard. Our residential property was old and obviously not built with accessibility in mind. It was unbelievably sad to see him walk with great difficulty just to take bathroom breaks. The hardest part was probably processing the heavy thought that my father, a gentle, learned and loving man with a doctorate in pharmacology and so many years of service at the Ministry of Health and Medical Education, had become frail and fragile and in need of assistance and care around the clock. 

The stroke robbed my father of the ability to help my mother with parenting duties, a fact that he admitted and regretted throughout the remainder of his life. Quite sadly, the thought made him feel all the more bitter. It seemed to me that the idea of fatherhood without the ability to father his children was severely traumatizing and hard to swallow. I wish I had the emotional capacity to help him feel and think in a more positive light.

My father was the only person in my life who instilled the love of reading in me and made me understand how deeply I loved the written word. I discovered Maxim Gorky’s My Universities for the very first time in his expansive library, and was left in awe of Freud’s treatise on dreams one afternoon when I had skipped doing my homework to read for pleasure instead. I still treasure his advice on keeping silent about daily world affairs, waiting for events to come out of the news cycle and avoiding rampant populist rhetoric. My father was also a central figure in making me realize how important it is to be a people person, listen closely and learn to appreciate the complexity of human interactions. 

People we come to love in life will forever live in our hearts and minds. Our memories of them, distant or close, fill us as we go through the day, as we breathe the air they once breathed, or as we walk in the path they might or might not have walked in, but wished to. I wish I had been able to thank my father again and again for his emphasis on growing a strong character and striving to live a self-sufficient life in harmony and peace with others. I really wanted my father to know that his love, as irreplaceable as it is and will be, gave me so much. 

—

Leave your thoughts for Mahsa in the comments below. You can also follow us on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn and YouTube to stay up-to-date with Low Entropy news!

Neha Kaushik, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

There is something silent and enduring about the way a father grieves. He doesn’t always say much, but you can see the sorrow tucked behind his routine—the same breakfast he lays out, the clothes folded just the way she used to fold them, the bedtime stories that sound a little unsure, a little softer than before.

When a mother passes, something enormous goes missing from the everyday rhythm of life. But when a father stays, and chooses not only to stay, but to step into the role she once held, it becomes a quiet act of extraordinary love.

This is a story echoed in many homes, told in soft, worn-out evenings and early morning school runs. It’s a story of fathers who didn’t expect to become both anchor and sail, but did so because love demanded it.

The Day Everything Changed

When she passed, the house felt too large. The absence was loud and impossible to ignore. But more than anything, the children felt it—in the lullabies that no longer came, in the scent that had disappeared from their pillows, in the gentleness that seemed to evaporate with her.

And he felt it too. But there was no time to crumble. Grief would come later, in broken sleep and bathroom tears. For now, shoes needed to be tied, homework had to be checked, lunch boxes filled and appointments remembered.

He began learning things he’d never thought he’d need to. How to braid hair. How to read through a fever. How to sew a button and comfort a broken heart with the right words. He fumbled often—burned toast, mismatched clothes, forgotten project deadlines. But he tried. And over time, the effort softened into rhythm.

Love Without a Manual

Motherhood often comes with books, forums, support groups. Fatherhood, especially of this kind, does not. There’s no handbook for “how to be both,” no guide to mothering while still learning how to grieve.

He had to learn how to hold space—not just for his children’s grief, but his own. There were nights when one child would cry about a school recital without their mom and he would nod, holding back his own tears, making space for them.

In these moments, he learned something new about love. It wasn’t always knowing the right thing to say. Sometimes, it was sitting beside someone and just staying there. That, too, was parenting.

The Struggles

There were so many struggles, both visible and invisible.

There were practical challenges—figuring out the grocery lists she once managed effortlessly, remembering birthdays, juggling office calls with parent-teacher meetings. And then, there were the emotional hurdles.

His daughter’s first period came, and he panicked. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know. So he called her aunt, searched online and later sat with her, awkwardly but lovingly, trying to be both comforting and informed. She smiled through her discomfort—she could see he was trying.

There were judgmental whispers too. “Children need a mother,” some said. And while that may be true, he proved something else—they need love, presence and tenderness. And he had all three, even if it took time to show it.

The Moments That Made It Worth It

Despite the struggles, there were moments.

There was the time his son said, “You pack my lunch just like mom used to,” and he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. Or when his daughter hugged him after he clumsily applied eyeliner for a school play and said, “You’re not bad at this.”

These moments didn’t erase the grief. But they stitched new fabric into their family story—one where resilience and gentleness lived side by side.

He created new traditions. Pancake Sundays. Evening walks. Movie nights with popcorn and all the pillows from the house dumped on the floor. These weren’t replacements. They were additions—proof that love can expand, not just fill in gaps.

Redefining Fatherhood

In stepping into her shoes, he didn’t become less of a father—he became more.

He redefined fatherhood, not as a distant protector, but as an involved nurturer. He taught his children that strength includes softness, that masculinity includes care. That it’s okay to not know, to try, to fail and to try again.

He became the arms they ran to, the voice that soothed them, the presence that never wavered. And slowly, they built a different kind of normal.

A Love That Learns to Stretch

He will always miss her. There are some wounds time doesn’t close, it only teaches you to carry. But in her absence, he became something remarkable—not just a parent, but a whole world for his children.

And though he may never admit it, though he might say “I just did what had to be done,” the truth is—he did something rare. He became both sky and shelter. Both question and answer.

He became proof that love, when it stretches itself beyond what it thought it could be, becomes something almost sacred.

In the end, when a father becomes both mother and father, he’s not trying to replace. He’s simply choosing to show up. Again and again. In grief, in growth, in all the ordinary days that slowly begin to feel like home again.

—

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Diny Davis (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

“A father’s love is forever imprinted on his child’s heart.” – Jennifer Williamson 

Everyone has that one person in their life that  they can always count on. For many, including myself, that person is my father. A father’s role goes far beyond providing shelter and security: they offer guidance, wisdom and, most importantly, provide unwavering support. When we think about life lessons, many of them come from family, particularly from parents who shape our character and values. 

My dad, who served in the Indian Air Force for over 37 years, is a man of principles who has taught me countless lessons, but three cornerstones particularly stand out—discipline, manners and punctuality. These teachings not only molded me into the person I have become today, but also equipped me with tools to navigate life’s challenges effectively.

Discipline: The Backbone of Success

Discipline might sound like a strict term, but for my dad, it was the foundation of a well-lived life. Growing up, I learned that discipline was about more than just following rules—it was about commitment and dedication.

Manners: The Language of Respect

If discipline was the backbone, manners were the heart of my upbringing. My dad emphasized the importance of treating others with respect and kindness, a lesson woven into my daily interactions.

Punctuality: Respecting Time

Time waits for no one, and my dad instilled in me the value of punctuality early on. Not only about being on time, punctuality reflects respect for other people’s time and commitments.

When I landed my first job interview, arriving fifteen minutes early not only calmed my nerves but also impressed the interviewer. It was a reminder of my dad’s lesson that being punctual reflects professionalism and dedication.

Always Present Through Milestones

My father’s presence has been a constant across all major milestones in my life. From my first steps to my first job, he has been there to cheer, guide and support me. A father’s wisdom can be a grounding force, providing clarity and focus when life becomes overwhelming.

The Lessons I’ve Learned from My Dad

Integrity and Hard Work: My dad has consistently demonstrated the value of integrity and hard work, imparting these essential lessons through his actions rather than only words.

Work Ethic: Watching him rise early and dedicate himself wholeheartedly to his career taught me discipline and perseverance.

Moral Values: His steadfast attachment to ethical principles has been a guiding light, helping me navigate complex decisions with confidence.

Compassion and Empathy: Beyond the tangible lessons, my dad instilled in me the importance of understanding and empathy.

Helping Others: My father’s willingness to lend a helping hand reflects a deep-rooted compassion. Whether assisting a neighbor or volunteering at a meeting center, he demonstrated the joy and fulfillment found in serving others.

The Impact of a Father’s Presence

Building Confidence and Independence: My dad’s reliable support fostered an environment where I felt safe to explore my independence and develop self-confidence.

Encouragement to Explore: His encouragement of me to pursue my interests and passions led me to develop a well-rounded character and confidence in my abilities.

Learning Through Challenges

Of course, not every day was smooth sailing. There were times when sticking to a disciplined routine was challenging, but my dad taught me that perseverance is part of discipline. Whenever I faced obstacles, he reminded me,

“It’s not the setbacks, but how you overcome them that counts.”

This philosophy encouraged me to view setbacks as learning opportunities, a perspective I carry with me even today.

Reflecting on the enduring presence and unwavering support of my dad, it’s clear how essential a father’s role can be in shaping a person’s life. His guidance, patience and love have been instrumental in nurturing my growth and development. I realize these principles of discipline, manners and punctuality have been invaluable: they are not only rules to follow, but values that shape one’s character and direct life’s journey in meaningful ways.

As fathers around the world impact their children’s lives with their never-ending support and nurturing generations to come, here’s to appreciating our fathers and the profound influence they hold—truly irreplaceable pillars of strength and love.

—

Diny Davis is an aspiring author who is passionate about fitness and a strong believer in the close connection between physical and mental health. She is a journalism, psychology and literature graduate, a loving wife and a caring mother who maintains a balance in her work and personal lives while giving emphasis to self-care.

Dr. M Umar S Ch (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

My father never raised his voice to be heard. 
His silence carried more weight than most men’s words.

He wasn’t a man of speeches. He didn’t sit us down for long conversations or offer advice in big moments. Instead, he moved through life quietly—steady, composed and deeply present. At the time, I didn’t realize how much that presence would shape me.

Today, as I work across borders—from offering care to orphaned children in Kyrgyzstan to standing beside displaced families and migrants—I carry his strength with me. It lives in how I show up, how I listen, how I choose empathy over ego. My father taught me that strength isn’t in force—it’s in the stillness that holds others, in the calm that steadies storms.

There were days when he would simply sit beside me, saying nothing at all. And yet, those were the moments I felt most safe. That unspoken comfort—that quiet assurance—became my foundation for working in humanitarian spaces, where people often carry grief too heavy for words.

I remember standing outside a shelter in a foreign land, watching a mother rock her child to sleep under the open sky. I didn’t have a solution. I didn’t have the language. But I had presence. I stayed. I listened. And in that moment, I knew I was living out the very strength my father had shown me all along.

He was never in the spotlight. But he was the reason the light stayed on.

Even now, when I face moral crossroads or moments of burnout in global health advocacy, I pause and think: What would my father do? Not in terms of action, but in spirit. Would he stay calm? Would he choose compassion over control? Would he give space instead of rushing in with answers?

The answer is always yes.

My father’s way of being taught me that healing doesn’t always look like fixing. Sometimes, it looks like witnessing. Like standing with someone in their pain and reminding them—through presence alone—that they’re not alone.

He taught me that true leadership isn’t loud. 
That dignity doesn’t come from dominance. 
And that the deepest kind of love is the one that asks for nothing in return.

Even when we had little, he gave freely. Even when he was tired, he kept showing up. That silent strength—the ability to keep giving without being seen—has shaped every decision I make, especially in work that stretches across language, culture and hardship.

As I write this, I think about all the people I’ve met through my humanitarian journey. The ones who have lost everything. The ones who have held on anyway. And I see traces of my father in them too. The way they rise each morning, carry burdens without complaint and love fiercely, despite the odds.

There’s a kind of unity that exists only in quiet strength.
It bridges gaps where words fail. 
It connects people beyond borders, beliefs and backgrounds. 
It reminds us that we are all, at our core, simply human—longing to be held, heard and healed.

To my father—thank you. 
Your silence spoke volumes. 
Your strength built the bridge I now walk across to serve others.

Your love didn’t need to be loud to be unforgettable.

—

Dr. M Umar S Ch is a physician and global health advocate whose humanitarian work spans crisis zones, orphan support and cross-border solidarity. His mission is to heal not only bodies, but broken systems, with empathy and action.

Maria de Fátima Lima (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

All I ever wanted was to be a journalist. 

To chase questions, to listen, to write, to hold moments like light in a frame. 

I once thought that dream was mine alone, sparked in solitude, until I saw it clearly: it was an inheritance. My father lived his life as a journalist and photographer for one of Brazil’s major newspapers. The newsroom, alive with ink and urgency, was where I first stepped into his world. As a child, I wandered those halls, wide-eyed, the air heavy with the scent of ink, the rhythmic churn of machines feeding paper through metallic mouths. As a young woman, I claimed a desk there—my first job, and one I took on with pride. That seat carried history, expectation and love.

His craft called me before I could name it. That hunger to bear witness grew in the spaces we shared: drives to school, movie nights, our family’s cherished Victrola spinning Glenn Miller’s tender notes. He taught me to see through a lens how light enters a small box and becomes memory, how images emerge in the dark, like truths surfacing in silence. Back then, I was just “the boss’ daughter,” unaware of how deeply his presence was shaping me. Not through loud lessons, but through quiet patience—through art passed down like breath.

As I grew, his world became a shadow I both craved and feared. He was steady, reserved, a man of principle shaped by a generation that prized silence over sentiment. “Don’t argue about football, religion or politics,” he would say. “People hold their truths tightly. Silence is kinder.” 

His words became my guide for navigating the world’s sharp edges, a lesson in listening over speaking. When nightmares of ghosts gripped me as a child, he would say, gently, “Do not fear what is gone; it can’t harm you. It is the living, with their hidden edges, you must watch for.”

Only now do I see—his restraint was not distance, but care, shaped by a world that taught men to be stone.

He was clearest about my future. He urged me toward a journalism degree path he had not taken himself, his own craft learned through the newsroom’s rhythm, chasing stories, earning trust. We visited a campus in São Paulo more than once, his hope in every step. I can still feel him in the pavement when I pass. But I chose Tourism Management, drawn to its stability, afraid that chasing stories might leave me—or my two small boys—exposed to a world too unpredictable. I wanted steadiness for them, not the starlight of a dream. 

Time moves unevenly and we were often out of step, like Benjamin Button and his father in that curious tale where one ages backward and the other forward, passing each other in time, yet bound by love. I remember moments I thought were all about disappointment, like the time his car caught fire, right in front of a fire station, of all places. I was behind the wheel, panicking while the smoke rose, and he rested a steady hand on my shoulder, his eyes soft, his words few. That moment, once a source of shame, now feels like a gift—his calm a language of love I was too young to read. Only now do I understand.

The ache lies in what we never said. I wanted to share my pride in carrying his legacy, my regret for the moments we let slip. Those words stayed folded in the silence between us, small offerings I didn’t know how to give. His passing was no crescendo—just a photograph, fading in the light. 

Yet so much of him remains. In writing this, I find him again—on the newsroom steps, beside the Victrola, his hand on my back through every disappointment. I’ve returned to writing: essays, short stories, scripts that live quietly in my heart. Here, in this fragile act of remembering, I finally speak: all I ever wanted was to be a journalist, like you, Dad.

I just didn’t know it then. Through these words, I chase the stories you taught me to see, holding the world, as you did, in a frame. I imagine your eyes, soft as they were, meeting mine. And I know your hope lives on in me, in the questions I ask, in the light I capture.

We have found our rhythm, at last. 

—

My name is Maria de Fátima Lima and writing is my therapy. I believe art makes us better people, offering countless ways to reflect on today’s world, as well as the past and future. I live in New Brunswick, in Atlantic Canada and I work daily with a multicultural settlement agency. What I love most about collaborating with Low Entropy is the freedom to explore subjects I’m passionate about in my own voice.

Grace Cheng (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

The role of a father is one of the most fulfilling and significant that an individual can play. Giving unwavering love isn’t just about providing money; it’s about showing up emotionally, offering guidance, cultivating patience and practicing perseverance. Although each family dynamic and child are unique, several general principles can help fathers build meaningful, lasting connections with their children. This article provides actionable steps for becoming a loving, supportive and involved father. 

Stay Involved and Attentive

Effective fatherhood requires both physical and emotional availability. Children need to know their fathers are truly present for them—not only in presence, but also in attentiveness and engagement. Taking part in conversations, playing together and spending quality time together are all part of this process. When you engage with your children, whether you are helping them with their homework, playing ball or simply listening to what they have to say, they will know that you care about them.

Offer Unwavering Love

A child’s development is enhanced when they know that they are loved unconditionally. Whenever possible, express your affection through words, hugs or shared moments. Give them praise based on their efforts, rather than their results, and let them know that you are proud of them despite their mistakes. It is this type of love that provides them with the emotional stability that allows them to grow in confidence.

Lead by Example

There is no doubt that children are keen observers and often imitate their parents. Be the role model you would like them to be by showing integrity, kindness and respect in your daily actions. Accept responsibility for your own mistakes and approach them with humility. Your behavior demonstrates your values more effectively than any lecture could.

Show Patience and Understanding

We all know that parenting isn’t always easy. Respond calmly and compassionately to your children whenever they are upset or acting out. It is important to realize that they are still learning how to handle emotions and navigate the world. By listening carefully and validating their feelings, we can build trust and become more aware of our emotions. Practicing patience teaches your children how to manage challenges healthfully.

Set Clear Boundaries with Love

The purpose of discipline is to teach, not to punish. For children to develop responsibility, they need structure and clear expectations. Reward good behavior with consistent, fair consequences and reinforce it with encouragement. It is best to avoid harsh discipline and instead focus on explaining why rules are important. This provides children with a sense of security while they are learning right from wrong.

Foster Independence

Supporting your children does not imply doing everything for them. Provide them with options and responsibilities that are appropriate for their age to help them develop decision-making skills. Accountability can be taught through the completion of tasks, such as feeding a pet or cleaning toys. By entrusting them with responsibilities, you demonstrate your confidence in their abilities.

Maintain Open Communication

Open and honest communication is the cornerstone of successful father-child relationships. Establish an environment where your children feel comfortable expressing themselves without fear of judgment. Show genuine interest in what they have to say by asking open-ended questions, listening without interrupting and asking open-ended questions. By doing so, you will be able to build trust with them and gain a deeper understanding of their needs.

Encourage Learning and Passions

Being involved in your children’s education and personal interests is a great way to support them. Participate in school events, assist with projects and celebrate milestones. Be enthusiastic about whatever excites them, whether it is music, sports or science. By encouraging them, you demonstrate that their passions are important.

Take Care of Yourself

A great father is also one who takes care of his health and well-being. Being physically and mentally balanced enables you to provide better support for your family. It is important to manage stress, seek assistance when needed and invest in your personal growth. Taking care of yourself is not selfish—in fact, it strengthens your ability to parent effectively.

Teach Morals and Everyday Skills

The development of your children goes beyond academics. You should talk to them about values such as honesty, empathy, perseverance and gratitude. Demonstrate these characteristics in your everyday activities. Furthermore, you should teach them practical skills such as problem-solving, emotional regulation and responsibility to prepare them for adulthood.

Celebrate Their Individuality

Each child has a unique personality. Don’t compare your child with others; instead, embrace what makes them different. By recognizing their individuality and interests, you help them develop self-confidence and self-esteem. 

Adapt Through Change

Children are constantly growing and changing. As your child matures and faces new challenges, make sure you are prepared to adjust your approach. Throughout every stage, remain consistent in your support and understanding. It is your steady presence that helps them to feel secure, no matter what life throws at them.

Being a good father requires an ongoing commitment based on love, presence and hard work. This involves showing up with a purpose, modeling the values you wish to see in your child and supporting their emotional and personal development. While no one is perfect, a dedicated and mindful approach can make a substantial difference. The love and support you provide today will have a profound impact on the person your child will become in the future. Embrace the journey with humility and pride, knowing your example is one of the most powerful gifts you can offer.

—

Grace has an accounting and finance background. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, watching movies and playing sports.

Neda Ziabakhsh, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

Not all love is loud.

Some love stands in the background, steady and still—like a mountain holding up the sky. That is the love of a father. Quiet. Solid. Often unspoken, yet deeply felt.

A father may not always say the words, but you can feel his love in the way he shows up. In the way he works hard, not for praise, but so you never feel the weight of what he carries. In the way his eyes light up, just slightly, when you walk into the room—even if he pretends to stay composed.

Growing up, I didn’t always understand my father. His hands were rough, his words were few, and his love was not wrapped in softness the way my mother’s was. But now I know—that was his poetry. That was his protection.

He was the one who made sure the lights stayed on. Who taught me how to stand firm in a world that sways? Who taught me that real strength is quiet, not loud—and that a strong heart can still be tender?

As I walk through life now, I see pieces of him in myself. In how I face challenges. In how I fight for my family. In how I love—fiercely, quietly, completely.

To the fathers who stay up late so their children can dream easily. To those who sacrifice silently. To the ones who speak through actions more than words:

You are seen. You are deeply loved. You are the steady beat behind every brave step we take.

And to my own father—thank you. For being my first lesson in strength and my quiet example of love.

Because the world often forgets to sing songs about fathers like you—let this be my song.

—

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Nirali Bhate, Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

Because apparently, adulthood is optional.

When I signed up for a life partner, I pictured a grown-up partnership. You know . . . sharing responsibilities, deep conversations and the occasional romantic grocery trip where we both remember what we came for. Classic adulting stuff.

What I got instead? Well . . . a man-child who treats replacing the toilet paper roll like it’s an Olympic-level event.

Welcome to my life: raising a child and coexisting with a fully grown adult who sometimes needs more supervision than the actual kid.

Selective Hearing: His Secret Superpower

Ask him to bring home milk and he’ll return with chips, two family packs of ice creams and a confused look when I mention the word milk. But say the word pizza and suddenly he’s alert, like a Navy SEAL on a mission. Spooky, right?

Household Chores: A Game of Hot Potato

He’s mastered the laundry system:

• Step 1: Wear clothes
• Step 2: Leave them near the hamper
• Step 3: Wait for the magical Laundry Fairy (that’s me) to handle the rest

The Illusion of “Helping”

“I helped with dinner” = He opened the food delivery app.

“I helped the kid study” = He launched the learning app on the tablet . . . and immediately switched to Netflix.

Bonus points: he once said he babysat our own child. I had to lovingly remind him, “Sweetheart, this is called parenting, not a side hustle.”

Tech Support: Also Me

Despite owning enough tech to launch a satellite, he still yells, “Honey!” because the wireless mouse isn’t working.

Spoiler: it needed batteries. Or to be turned on. You know . . . basic adult attention.

Emotional Maturity: A Spectrum

When something goes wrong, my actual child throws a tantrum.

The adult one? He gets hangry, rummages through the fridge like a raccoon, and only returns to normal after snacks and a full stomach. It’s like watching a Snickers commercial every. Single. Time.

But Here’s the Thing . . .

For all the missed cues, snack-driven mood swings and creatively redefined “helping,” he’s mine.

Somehow, his man-child energy balances out my Type-A-panic. We’ve learned to laugh through the chaos, usually after I’ve cleaned it up.

Because if I’m going to raise two kids, at least one of them can (occasionally) reach the top shelf and open the candy jar.

Ever feel like your partner’s secretly your second kid? Share your funniest story in the comments—I promise I won’t tell them. 😉

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