Last year, I became a father. My wife and I, as first-time parents, had a really rough start. When my three-week-old daughter caught COVID and ended up in the hospital, I genuinely thought she might not make it—that she'd die in my wife's arms while I stood helpless, unable to do a damn thing. A year and three months have passed since then, and I'm still healing from those dark times and the many other challenges we've faced. Here's the full story.

On September 6, at 5:15 a.m., I stood beside my wife as she gave birth to our beautiful daughter. Even though I wasn't the one pushing, the experience was cathartic as hell. I had no clue such a tiny person could scream so loudly. From the start, I promised myself I'd never be the kind of dad who leaves everything to the mom. I wanted to do the grocery shopping, clean the house, cook, change diapers, help with baths, and rock or sway the baby to sleep if she wouldn't settle after breastfeeding. Babies have two parents, so both should pitch in—especially in those first few months when Mom's up constantly feeding and can barely rest.

In the early days, our daughter struggled with eating, and her jaundice got worse. We took her to several doctors, and each one gave us a different reason for why she wasn't eating well: some said she was lactose intolerant, others claimed she had retrognathia, and still others suspected a tongue-tie that might need surgery. Yet the common thread was that she just needed to eat more for the jaundice to fade. We brought in multiple IBCLC consultants to help us, but she still wasn't gaining much weight. After the first week, she was so dehydrated that she passed out. We panicked and called our pediatrician, who gave us a few tricks to wake her up so she'd eat more. Thankfully, it worked.

By week #2, she was latching better but still not eating much. Then one evening, she woke from a nap and started screaming bloody murder for 20 minutes straight. Nothing helped—no breastfeeding, no swaying, no rocking, no singing. On our pediatrician's advice, we tried a bath, but that failed too. Finally, we put her in the car and headed to the hospital. By the time we got to the ER, she had dozed off. The doctors guessed it was colic, gave us something for gas pain, and sent us home with more tips on soothing her.

Heading into week #3, my wife started feeling ill. She tested positive for COVID, and our daughter seemed off too, so we assumed she had it as well—probably from all the doctor visits, where she'd been exposed to a bunch of germs while still fragile. According to our pediatrician, COVID in newborns is usually mild, but she stopped eating enough and got dehydrated again. This time, we weren't so lucky. We had to take her to the ER, where they confirmed she had COVID and decided to admit her. Only one parent could stay according to the protocol. That was the last night I slept near them for the next two weeks.

Because both my wife and daughter had COVID, they were placed in the pulmonology division of the pediatric hospital, full of other similar cases. The Romanian public health system is a total mess, and many nurses there are underpaid, burnt out, and frankly don't give a crap—real bitches, to be honest. I was only allowed 30-minute visits each day. Thankfully, they were on the first floor with a window facing the street, so I could still drop by and see them from outside visiting hours.

The doctors stuck a tube through our daughter's nose into her stomach so they could give her formula to fix her dehydration. They also put a cannula in her arm to give her medication for her liver, since the jaundice still hadn't cleared. After a few days of UV therapy and tube feeding, they removed the tube and tried to have her breastfeed again. But the doctors insisted my wife needed to know exactly how much milk the baby was getting, or they wouldn't discharge them. Measuring was tough with direct breastfeeding, so out of fear they'd be stuck in that nightmare of a hospital even longer—while stress and sleep deprivation grew—my wife decided to switch to pumping and bottle-feeding. Little did we know that this was the beginning of the end of breastfeeding for our little one.

Every 24 hours, the cannula would clog because our daughter's veins were too fragile. The nurses moved it from arm to arm, then to a leg, then the other leg, then back again. They rarely got it right the first time—sometimes they had to poke her three to five times before finding a vein that wouldn't blow. She screamed through each attempt. No wonder she's never been a great sleeper—three weeks into life, she never knew if she'd wake up to yet another needle in her tiny limbs.

Every day, they ran blood and stool tests to see if her vitals were improving—and they were, little by little, during the first week. Then a new infection popped up. It wasn't COVID; it came from a clogged cannula in her leg that went unnoticed under the bandage. They switched her meds, gave her something stronger, and, by this time, I started to think she might not survive. I ended up smoking again after a month of having quit.

While my wife and daughter were in the hospital, I ran all over town each day to get them supplies, because the hospital didn't provide anything beyond basic medicine. Formula, bottled water, clothes, diapers, food for my wife—whatever they needed, I brought it. Even if they didn't need anything, I showed up just to see them through the window and assure myself they were okay.

Eventually, that dark chapter passed, and they came home. But the trauma didn't magically disappear. My wife barely slept during those two weeks, juggling a constantly screaming infant and dealing with nurses who acted like they didn't want to be there at all. We're not talking "waking up every couple hours for a sweet bonding moment"; it was nonstop chaos and exhaustion.

After they got home, my wife tried for several more weeks to retrain our daughter to breastfeed, but the little one started screaming during each attempt, terrified. So we stuck to bottle-feeding since it was crucial for her to gain weight.

Our daughter has always had trouble eating and sleeping. Her naps were almost always a perfect 30 minutes, like clockwork. She's only ever slept in a stroller twice—15 minutes each time—and she only calmed down from screaming if we rocked, swayed, or bounced her on our shoulder or in a baby carrier. From November until March, I racked up 10,000 to 15,000 steps a day just pacing our living room, keeping her asleep in the carrier while my shift was up. The only sure way to quiet her was doing lunges or squats. I did a ton of those—at least I stayed in shape, since new parents rarely find time to work out.

She started crawling at four months, pulling herself up at seven and a half, and walking by ten—all without us pushing her. She refuses to sit in her chair for more than five minutes before flipping out and trying to escape that "godforsaken" chair. My wife and I can barely recharge during the day because she's so hyperactive. I don't think we've eaten together at the same table more than two or three times since she was born. Usually, one of us feeds her, she starts screaming or flinging food, we take her out, and then the other finishes eating. I wish we could slow her down, but she's rushing through this first stage of life at full speed, and I have no idea why.

Now, when I pass a mom in the park peacefully reading a book while her baby dozes in a stroller, I do swear under my breath. Some parents have it so easy. Same goes for toddlers who sit calmly in a restaurant for more than 15 minutes without blowing the place up.

I think a lot of parents do struggle but rarely talk about it. My theory is that they're too busy surviving to share the tough stuff. When I opened up about this on X, I had a meaningful DM about how the first child is always the hardest. No matter how many parenting books you read, every baby is different, and if yours is hyperactive on top of everything, it can push you to the edge.

For me, 2023 was the worst year of my life. The anxiety, fear, and constant fight to keep our baby alive—plus her feeding and sleeping problems—pushed me into a dark depression. Those first few weeks, you run on adrenaline and excitement, but after a year of going from sleeping eight hours straight down to chunks of one or two (or if you're lucky, four or five), your body and immune system crumble, and that initial excitement fades fast.

2024 has been a little better, but still rough compared to any other year I've lived. Before becoming a parent, I had all the time and freedom in the world. Now, my only "freedom" is deciding if I should sacrifice an hour of sleep for some personal time. If you don't, you're stuck in a loop: wake up, work, switch with your partner so she can get a break, put the baby to sleep, repeat. If you do sacrifice sleep, you burn out even faster. That's partly why I picked up smoking again—it gave me 5–10 minutes to step outside and breathe. Not healthy, but it felt like a temporary lifeline.

My wife and I started smoking during COVID because of stress. Once we began considering having a kid, she quit, but I kept at it until our baby was born and then tried to quit—though I relapsed. I'm happy to say I'm now almost four months smoke-free, but I still need a better way to cope when my daughter decides she won't eat three or four meals in a row, refuses to sit in her chair, or won't nap for more than 30 minutes.

At least now my wife and I rotate mornings. One of us handles the baby's routine—feeding, playing, maybe a walk—while the other sleeps a bit more. We're lucky I work part-time; if I worked full-time, I probably would've quit by now. I can't fathom how first-time parents juggle this with zero maternity or paternity leave.

Mothers have plenty of parenting support groups. Dads, not so much. We're often told to "man up" and deal with it, which is frustrating. Only my wife and best friends know how many times I've cried after a two-hour screaming episode where nothing soothed our daughter.

Becoming a parent is without a doubt the fastest track to adulthood. Until you're responsible for another human 24/7—and face all the unknowns and struggles—nothing can prepare you for how quickly you have to "man up." The last 15 months have changed me more than anything else in my life. Yet, someone in my X DMs gave me a great advice on how to deal with it better:

We definitely started parenting on hard mode, but it's finally getting a bit easier, and we're seeing more moments of fun. Still, if one more parent tells me they totally get what I'm going through, I might lose it. No, you don't know! Sometimes I just need someone to listen to me vent about the shittiest year of my life—no help, no advice. Because what most first-time parents really need in tough times is a shoulder to cry on or a wall to punch—anything to release what's been building up inside.