The Circle of Growing Up

I was six when life felt simple and my world was small. At that age, I believed one thing with complete confidence: my father knew everything. If a toy broke or I had a question about the stars, I ran straight to him. He always had an answer, and to me, he looked larger than life. I didn’t see his worries or his exhaustion. I only saw a hero who could fix anything with his hands and make anything feel safe with his voice.

By the time I turned ten, I still admired him, but I started noticing things I never paid attention to before. He wasn’t perfect. He had a temper, and it sometimes scared me. I would wonder why he got angry so quickly. As a child, I didn’t understand that adults carry a thousand invisible weights. I only saw the reaction, never the reason behind it.

At twelve, something changed again. Maybe it was school, maybe friends, maybe I was just growing up, but I started thinking he wasn’t the same person he used to be. His rules felt stricter. His voice sounded harsher. I thought he was changing, but in truth, I was the one changing. Childhood innocence was fading, and with it went that blind admiration.

When I reached fourteen, I became convinced he was old-fashioned. He didn’t understand trends, didn’t approve of the things I liked, and didn’t agree with my opinions. I felt like he was stuck in another time. I didn’t realize that every generation thinks the same about the one before it.

At sixteen, I was sure he knew nothing about the modern world. I thought he didn’t understand technology, didn’t get my dreams, and didn’t know what life was like for people my age. If he gave advice, I brushed it off. If he warned me about something, I ignored it. I was convinced I knew better.

At eighteen, I felt he had become completely intolerant. Every small thing turned into a lecture, every decision led to an argument. I thought he wasn’t trying to understand me at all. I didn’t see that those lectures came from fear of losing me to mistakes he had already lived through.

By the time I turned twenty, living with him felt like the hardest job in the world. I wondered how my mother managed it all these years. Back then, I only saw the conflicts. I didn’t see the sacrifices behind them. I didn’t realize that parents carry storms inside themselves but still try to protect their children from every drop of rain.

At twenty-five, I felt he objected to everything I said or did. I thought he was trying to control my life. I wanted freedom, and he wanted responsibility. Neither of us was wrong, but neither of us understood the other.

At thirty, I started seeing things differently. I began to understand that agreeing with him wasn’t easy, not because he was impossible, but because our worlds were different. I even wondered if my grandfather had the same complaints about him. Maybe every son goes through this phase. Maybe this is how life teaches patience.

By forty, the picture became clearer. I saw the principles he raised us with. I saw how his discipline shaped my character, how his warnings saved me from trouble, how his restrictions protected me more than they punished me. I found myself wanting to raise my children the same way. That’s when I realized the value of what he gave us.

At forty-five, I grew more amazed. I couldn’t believe how he managed everything. How he raised us, worked for us, protected us, and still found the strength to smile. When I tried doing even half of what he did, I understood just how heavy those responsibilities were.

When I turned fifty, parenting hit me differently. I understood how difficult it was to guide children, how tiring it was to worry every single day, and how painful it was to stay awake through long nights just to make sure everything was fine. I finally saw the hidden part of fatherhood—the part children never see.

At fifty-five, I realized how wise he had been all along. The advice I ignored was the same advice I now gave others. The mistakes he warned me about were the same ones I saw in younger people. His words echoed in my head like lessons from a teacher I finally understood.

And at sixty, my heart finally accepted what my life had been trying to tell me all these years:

My father was truly the best of all.

It took me decades to understand what he meant, what he felt, what he carried, and what he sacrificed. Life completed a full circle and brought me right back to the truth I believed at six years old: a father may not be perfect, but he loves with a strength no one else can match.

Friends, it took me fifty-six years to learn what my childhood knew from the beginning. As long as our parents are alive, love them. Serve them. Be gentle with them. Time moves fast, and once it leaves, only memories stay behind. Make sure those memories are warm.