From Suits to Sleepless Nights: Navigating First-Time Fatherhood in a New City

I became a dad on March 2025. His name is Elio.

Since that day, sleep hasn’t been the same. I used to think staying up late for work or studying for certifications was tough – but that was voluntary. This is different. This is survival mode. You're on alert 24/7, running on caffeine and adrenaline, listening for every cry, every shuffle.

You get up before your eyes even fully open, because your instincts demand it. Sleep deprivation isn’t just physical – it’s emotional, mental, and at times, even spiritual. Some mornings, I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. But then I hold my son, and something inside me softens. I remember why I’m here.

The hardest part isn’t just the lack of sleep.

It’s the quiet disappearance of “me.” The gym sessions, the peaceful coffee breaks, even the simple act of doing nothing – gone. Time isn’t yours anymore. And when your wife is recovering from a C-section, breastfeeding around the clock, and adjusting to motherhood just as you’re adjusting to fatherhood, you realize quickly:

This season isn’t about you. That shift in mindset is both humbling and jarring, especially for someone used to structure, control, and productivity. I’ve always been a guy with a plan. But parenthood laughs at your plans.

And we’re doing this with no safety net.

We’re immigrants – new Canadians, permanent residents as of March. There are no titos, titas, lolos, or lolas here to pass Elio to while we nap or grab a bite. No family Sunday brunches. No one dropping by just to help or bring food. It’s just me and my wife, April, figuring things out together. We moved from the cold, remote life in Fort St. John to Kamloops last November because I got promoted at work. It was a big win on paper. But then came the reality: new city, new routines, a new baby. No time to build a village. Life reset overnight.

Some nights, April and I sit on the couch in silence. Not because we’re mad or distant – but because we’re running on fumes. Because sometimes words just can’t carry the weight of what we’re feeling: overwhelmed, grateful, scared, hopeful, exhausted, amazed – all at once. It's a different kind of intimacy, one that doesn’t need to be spoken.

There are days I miss home – the Philippines. I miss the smell of garlic rice and longganisa in the morning. I miss the chaotic, comforting noise of family all around. Here, it’s quiet. Sometimes too quiet. But I’ve come to appreciate the meaning of this silence. It’s not empty. It’s sacred. It’s where my son’s first coos and cries echo. It’s where our little family finds its footing.

There are no shortcuts to this. No instruction manual. No guaranteed formula for how to do this right. Just two people, newly made parents, waking up each day and choosing to try again. We argue sometimes. We cry sometimes. But we’re in it together. And that makes all the difference.

If you’re a first-time dad reading this – especially one far from home and without a village – here’s what I’ll say:

You will miss yourself. You’ll wonder if you’re enough. You’ll crave space, silence, and sleep. And sometimes, you’ll wonder if you’re doing it right. But then you’ll look down and see your baby asleep in your arms, his tiny hand curled around your finger. And you’ll know you’re doing something right.

You don’t need to have all the answers. You don’t need to be perfect.

You just need to show up – again and again, especially on the days when you feel like you have nothing left to give. Because your presence is what they’ll remember. Not whether you nailed every diaper change or rocked every burp. Just that you were there. Fully there.

This season is hard. But it’s also shaping me into the kind of man I never knew I had to become – not just a provider, but a protector, a partner, a present father.

We didn’t have a village. We became one – for each other.