This is the Moment

There’s no clean version of this story.

I live with Bipolar II, ADHD, and OCD — a mental relay race where the baton never stops moving. Some days, it feels like I’m cycling through 100 browser tabs in my brain while trying to get my daughter just to eat applesauce. Other days, I’m riding the high of productivity only to crash into a wall I didn't see coming. But life doesn’t pause for that — especially not with a one-year-old and a three-year-old in the house.

My daughter is just learning to wobble toward the world. My son is full of questions, mischief, and magic. And in the middle of this chaotic, beautiful, exhausting season, I’m trying not to miss the point: this is it.

Not someday. Not when things are calmer. Not when my brain cooperates.
Now.

Mental illness doesn’t take the day off so I can enjoy a birthday party or a walk to the park. But neither does joy. Neither does grace. Neither does the kind of love that hits you when your daughter nestles into your chest just because you’re you.

I used to think I had to fix everything inside of me to be the dad, partner, son, or friend I wanted to be. But the truth is, my kids don’t need a perfect version of me. They just need me present. They need me showing up, even if I’m tired, even if the storm is loud. And my partner, Jen, deserves that same kind of presence — the version of me that still reaches for her even when I’m spent.

Living with these diagnoses doesn’t mean I’m broken — it just means my operating system has a few quirks. I think differently, I feel differently, and I process the world in high volume. And while that comes with its weight, it also comes with a strange kind of richness.

I notice small things.
I cry at dumb commercials.
I feel time slipping, so I fight to hold it tighter — not out of fear, but out of reverence.

Because someday, they won’t reach for my hand the same way.
Someday, I won’t be the hero who fixes the broken toy.
Someday, the chaos of sticky fingers and bedtime stories will give way to quieter mornings.
And I don’t want to realize too late that these were the good old days.

So I’m trying.
To be present.
To breathe before reacting.
To say “yes” more than “not right now.”
To ask for help when I need it.
To tell the people I love that I love them, out loud, often, even when my head is loud too.

There’s no bow to tie on this. I’m still learning how to hold joy and pain in the same hand.

But today, I held my son while he laughed from his belly, and I forgot everything else for a second.
That’s enough.
That’s everything.