The Art of Being Held: My First 100 Days of Fatherhood

My daughter's teaching me to trust life's unfolding through tears, truth, love, rupture, and creative renaissance.

My daughter Ember turns 100 days old today. As we prepare to fly back to San Francisco for her 100-Day Banquet, I find myself reflecting on the wisdom of this ancient Chinese tradition. Villages would gather to welcome babies who had survived their most vulnerable period.

Today, I’m struck by how this tradition holds a deeper truth: these first 100 days transform not just the baby, but the entire family.

The other day, when a friend asked how I was doing as a father, the word that emerged was “flourishing.” Yes, there have been chaotic days, moments where I've lost my shit, fights with Kiki, times when everything seemed to unravel. But all of this has unfolded against a backdrop of profound beauty, where I'm learning to see the divine perfection even in the challenging moments.

To mark this milestone, I want to share five unexpected and powerful lessons from my first 100 days of fatherhood. These aren’t the typical advice you find in parenting books. These are the transformative insights that have made fatherhood as profound as any plant medicine journey — with the added blessing that it's woven into every moment of daily life.

These are the lessons I wish someone had shared with me before I became a father, the ones that would have filled me with anticipation — and even devotion — rather than anxiety about this new chapter.

Developing a secure attachment to life.

I’m holding Ember as she’s wailing in my arms. Her needs are met — she’s fed, changed, and warm against my chest. Yet something deeper is moving through her tiny body. As I hold her, breathing slowly, I resist the instinct to bounce, shush, or otherwise try to stop her tears. Instead, I simply stay present, transmitting through my steady presence what I'm learning to be the most fundamental truth of existence: you are held, you are safe, you are loved, everything is okay.

About a year ago, one of my spiritual teachers shared that the purpose of our souls’ journey is to cultivate a secure attachment to life itself. At the time, it was an intriguing but abstract concept. Now, as we practice crying-in-arms with my daughter, I’m discovering what that actually means through lived experience.

Kiki and I have embraced an approach called Aware Parenting, particularly the wisdom shared by Marion Rose. This practice has revealed to us that babies cry for two distinct reasons: to express immediate needs (hunger, sleep, touch, etc.) and to release and integrate deeper emotions. When all immediate needs are met, continued crying isn’t a problem to fix — it’s a healing process, perhaps working through overstimulation from the day, birth memories, or other experiences that her developing nervous system is learning to integrate.

In these moments, our role isn’t to stop the crying or fix anything. We’re simply there to hold space with our grounded presence, creating a container of safety where any emotion can be felt fully. The mainstream instinct to shush, swing, or offer a pacifier — while completely natural — actually interrupts this vital process, teaching babies to suppress their feelings rather than move through them.

When Ember tries to self-soothe by sucking her hand or fidgeting, we gently discourage it, staying present as she rides the wave of emotion to completion. And then, inevitably, the transformation comes: her tiny body relaxes with a subtle shudder, her face softens into a smile, and often she drifts into peaceful sleep. The depth of her release is palpable.

What’s surprised me most is how this practice has revolutionized my own relationship with intense emotional experiences. As I hold space for Ember's tears, I’m learning what it truly means to be held by something larger than myself — call it the divine, the universe, or simply life itself. The message is the same: no matter how intense things get in any given moment, you are fundamentally okay.

This knowing has begun to ripple through every aspect of my life. In the early days of fatherhood, my own moments of overwhelm were messy and frightening. I’d resist the feelings, my whole system contracting as I tried desperately to hold myself together for this new chapter of life.

Then, around the eighth week, something shifted. One afternoon, after hours of demanding presence with Ember, I hit my limit. Instead of pushing through, I handed her to Kiki and retreated to my office. There, I sobbed into my hands, releasing the heartbreak of reaching the edges of my capacity, with no more to give. I eventually found myself in the car, screaming into the void of my own overwhelm. Surprisingly, through it all, I felt held by this subtle sense that everything was fundamentally okay, even as I let myself completely fall apart.

What happened next was remarkable. Like Ember after a deep cry, I emerged feeling unusually energized, deeply connected to myself. The resistance had melted away. I moved through the rest of my day with surprising ease, even enjoying a long phone call with a friend. The parallel was striking — when I trust that I’m held, my own emotional release had followed the same pattern I’d witnessed so many times with my daughter.

This new capacity to meet intensity with trust and ease continues to expand. I'm learning to stay present with the anxiety that used to send me rushing to be somewhere else. I’m starting to say no to requests without the wobble that came from a fear of losing love and connection. I can voice difficult truths and desires without being paralyzed by the fear of judgment and trust that I’ll be okay.

Each day, I feel more securely attached to all of life’s offerings — both the gentle and the fierce. And it all began here, with my daughter's warm breath against my chest, teaching me how to hold space for tears.

Honing and embodying my sword of truth.

Steam rises from my tea bowl in the morning quiet of our sun room. As I sit on my meditation cushion, yesterday’s moments that I’d pushed aside begin to surface. The tense exchange with Kiki about night feedings. The moment of frustration when a friend's drama pulled me away from precious time with Ember. The familiar loop of trying to figure out what to do for my life’s work.

In these early morning sessions, I’m learning to stay with these uncomfortable moments rather than brush past them. Each sip of tea becomes a chance to cut through my own patterns, to face what I've been unwilling to see or feel. The reality is simple but confronting: I love spending time with my daughter and family, and I have limited energy to do so. Every moment caught in old patterns — whether my own or others’ — takes me away from this precious time.

As a new father, I’m finding my tolerance for bullshit and drama has dropped away naturally. The loops my thoughts would get stuck in, the subtle ways I abandon myself, the moments I choose comfort over truth — all of these patterns have become painfully clear. Fatherhood has gifted me with both a sharper blade of discernment and a more pressing reason to use it.

My primary intention this year is to embody the sword of truth, being willing to stay and dance in the fire of intensity, in service of burning away the stories and the illusions that hold us back from unconditional love and unconditional trust in life. This daily practice with tea has become my training ground, each session a gentle sharpening of the blade.

The results have been transformative. I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt, breaking through patterns in consciousness that I've been stuck in for years. I’m powerfully and consciously stepping into tense but important conversations with Kiki and finally untangling some long-standing relational knots. I’m showing up with new depth in my men’s group, speaking truthfully even when some part of me hesitates.

Something about having this tiny being in my life has awakened a fierce clarity. I’m no longer willing to waste energy on dynamics that drain me, whether they’re internal or external. Instead, I’m learning to wield this sword of truth with both precision and compassion — cutting through illusion while staying grounded in love.

And perhaps most surprisingly, this commitment to truth is deepening my sense of secure attachment to life. There’s a profound safety in knowing I can trust myself to see and speak what’s real, even when it's uncomfortable. Each time I choose truth over comfort, I feel more deeply held by life itself.

Breaking my heart open to more love than I’ve ever known.

I’m lowering Ember into her bassinet, her tiny fingers curled into loose fists, as I prepare to tackle the day’s tasks. As I start to straighten up and walk away, I notice the slightly rushed pace in my body’s movement, as if I need to be somewhere, to get something productive done. The noticing makes me pause.

I rewind, turn back towards Ember, pick her back up, really seeing her. Suddenly, my chest tightens as if hit by a physical force. It’s overwhelming, almost frightening in its intensity. I ask myself, “What’s the intensity in the present moment that I’m avoiding?”

The answer comes with tears: I’m avoiding the sheer magnitude of this love. It’s too big, too raw, too real. Instead of pulling away into my work, I let myself sink into it. I hold her against my chest, and let myself sob as my heart breaks open to make space for this new vastness of feeling.

This keeps happening — moments where the love catches me off guard and breaks me open again. Sometimes it’s when Ember falls asleep in my chest. Sometimes it’s during my nighttime bottle feedings with her. Sometimes it’s when I’m singing a nonsense song that makes her smile or when I’m dancing with her in our living room. The love ambushes me in these simple moments, and each time, I have to choose: contract away from the intensity, or let it break me open even more.

Often, I catch myself moving through hours with Ember without feeling fully present — my mind distracted by work, tasks, doing. But when I drop back into presence, the truth becomes blindingly clear: love isn't somewhere else. It's already here, ready for me to feel and receive.

These days, my morning tea practice often ends with a pile of tissues around my meditation cushion. Not from processing difficulty or pain, but from being overwhelmed by love and gratitude. Love for this perfect little being who has turned my world upside down. Love for Kiki and the sacred container we’ve created in our home. Love for our community who has shown up with meal trains and cleaning sessions and massages and baby holds when we needed them most.

Even my triggers and challenges have become teachers of love. The midnight wake-ups, the moments of feeling overwhelmed, the arguments born from exhaustion — all of it is revealing new depths of what it means to love. Not just in the easy moments, but in the messy, human ones too.

Each time I let my heart break open, I find it grows back larger. Like a muscle strengthening through use, my capacity for love expands with every surrender to its intensity. And in this expansion, I’m discovering that love isn’t just a feeling — it's a way of being in the world, a lens through which everything becomes sacred, even the difficult parts.

Building a deeper resilience in partnership than we've ever had before.

It’s 3AM. Ember’s wailing in Kiki’s arms, and she wants me to change a diaper. I’m exhausted too, having just finished a marathon day with the baby. The tension between us crackles in the dark room — who’s more tired, who’s done more, who should take the next shift.

In the past, this would have spiraled into a familiar dance of argument and defensiveness. But something different happens. We both pause, and I acknowledge the reality: we’re both exhausted, both reaching our limits, both doing the best we can. I invite us to feel the heartbreak of not being able to fix this moment, knowing that this very heartbreak stands between us and deeper connection. We cry together.

Without a doubt, early parenthood is intense. These first 100 days have brought Kiki and I face to face with unresolved patterns, old wounds, habitual ways we abandon ourselves and each other. We’ve had multiple big fights — the kind that in the past would have felt like evidence that something was wrong that needed to be fixed.

But I’m seeing these ruptures differently now. Rather than viewing them as failures or problems to fix, I'm recognizing them as intelligent surfacing of the exact patterns that are ready to heal. Our fights aren’t really about night feedings or division of labor. They’re about deeper patterns in how we each relate to life: how we handle overwhelm, how we ask for help, how we stay connected when we feel helpless.

Each rupture becomes an opportunity to practice with my sword of truth. Instead of making Kiki the problem when I'm triggered by her anger, I’m learning to see our triggers as teachers, showing us exactly where we need to grow. Her frustration becomes a mirror, reflecting back the places where I’m still learning to stay grounded in the face of intensity — a skill I’ll need more and more as I step into teaching and leadership roles in the world.

The breakthrough comes when I can see through the illusion that either of us is the problem, or that the content of our argument is what really matters. In those moments of clarity, I recognize that what’s really happening: life is intelligently bringing situations to surface exactly what needs to be seen and integrated.

With this perspective, we’re having breakthroughs that feel miraculous. Root traumas around overwhelm, aggression, and avoidance that have shaped our dynamics for over five years are finally beginning to unwind. Patterns we’ve talked about in circles are shifting not through argument, but through our willingness to stay present with each other in the fire of triggering moments.

During ruptures, we retreat to our sacred practice room in the basement, where our dyad practice allows us to directly move the suppressed energy causing the relational rupture. I’m learning that when we’re triggered, what we think we want is to be heard and understood, but what we really need is to be felt. And the most direct path to being felt is moving that suppressed, stagnant energy. All the words, stories, and content tend to just get in the way.

The practice feels like a magical silver bullet, and the shift that we feel is still surprising every time. But there’s enough body memory now that when we’re in rupture, some part of us knows to move into practice and that we will be okay on the other side.

That 3 AM moment ended not with a solution, but with shared tears in the darkness. Not fixing, not solving, just being together in our raw humanity. And ironically, that shared vulnerability created exactly the resource and energy we needed to move forward.

We’re discovering a deeper resilience in our relationship — not because we fight less, but because we're learning to fight better. To use rupture as a pathway to intimacy rather than a threat to it. And in this process, we're both becoming more securely attached, not just to each other, but to ourselves and to the inherent wisdom of life’s unfolding.

Embracing a renaissance of my creative self.

The aroma of ginger fills our kitchen as I run my hands through a bowl of marinading chicken. Ember’s napping, and instead of rushing through dinner-making, I find myself fully absorbed in the sensual act of cooking. My fingers massage the meat, intuiting just the right combination of sauces. There’s no recipe, no plan — just the quiet joy of creating something with my hands, letting each ingredient suggest the next.

This is new for me. Throughout our relationship, I’ve been the household chef, especially for dinner. But my approach was always functional, dominated by questions of efficiency: What can I cook in 30 minutes? How can I optimize my prep time?

During Kiki’s pregnancy, I hit a low point in my cooking. Her sensitive palate with Ember in her belly rejected most of what I made, and as much as I loved cooking for her, eventually I gave up trying to meet her needs.

But something unexpected has emerged during my paternity leave. In letting go of the pressure to build my business during this time, I’ve found my energy flowing in a surprising direction — toward a complete renaissance of my relationship with cooking. What was once a functional task has become a creative practice that nourishes not just our bodies but my soul.

Now I find myself spending up to 90 minutes in the kitchen, completely present to the process. I taste as I go, adjusting spices by instinct rather than measurement. I’m following an inner creative spark that I hadn’t even realized was dormant.

The results aren't just better meals (though Kiki, with her brutally honest palate, confirms they are). It’s as if this new way of cooking has awakened something fundamental about how I want to create in all areas of my life. I’m discovering what it feels like to create from inspiration and enjoyment rather than obligation and effectiveness.

This shift has connected me unexpectedly with my mother's way of loving. Every time we visit San Francisco or she comes to us, her first instinct is to ensure we’re deeply nourished. When she last visited, half her suitcase was packed with Chinese ingredients she planned to use that would’ve been difficult to acquire in Boulder. I’m starting to adopt food as a love language as well. It’s both a profound form of creative expression and my new way to generously love on and nourish my family and my friends.

Even this piece of writing bears the mark of this transformation. My first draft emerged from that old place of functionality — checking the box of commemorating Ember's 100 days. A few hours in, I noticed the words felt flat, lifeless. It wasn’t until I paused to tune into what actually excited me to share — that same place where my intuitive cooking comes from — that these words began to flow with their own organic energy.

I’m learning to catch myself sooner when I slip into that old pattern of functionality. Whether I’m cooking dinner, writing, or building my work in the world, I’m discovering that true creativity flows not from a desire to get somewhere but from connection to my creative self, not from efficiency but from love.

And perhaps this is Ember’s greatest gift to me. In her gift of presence, she’s showing me how to slow down enough to taste life fully, to trust the process of creation as it unfolds. It’s not about what I create with my life, but how.

---

Read More About Fatherhood…

The New Parent Story I Wasn’t Told

Crossing the Threshold: A Journey to Embracing Fatherhood