“Aren’t You Sad You Won’t Be a Dad?”

For a long time, the answer was yes...

“Aren’t you sad you won’t be a dad?”

The question came up almost every time I came out to someone—no matter how kind or supportive they were. It was always there, sitting underneath everything else.

And the truth is, yes. I was.

I was raised in a big, close family where everything revolved around each other. Long before I understood anything about my identity, I understood what it meant to belong to something bigger than myself.

I wanted to bring a child into the world. To pass on more than genetics—creativity, humor, curiosity, faith, resilience. To build a family culture that felt like its own little universe. To care for someone, protect them, guide them, and grow alongside them.

So when I realized I was gay, it didn’t just feel like I was navigating who I was. It felt like I was losing something I had always longed for.

I wasn’t just sad. I was devastated.

I—and honestly, everyone around me—assumed that because I was gay, I wouldn’t be a father. Not that it would be harder or look different. Just that it wouldn’t happen. I barely knew other gay people, let alone ones building families. So I told myself I would be the best uncle I could be, fully showing up for my siblings’ kids. And for a long time, I let that version of the future settle in.

But little by little, something started to shift.

It started when I met Ryan.

I saw how he shows up for people—the steadiness in him, the way he takes care of things, how he creates safety without even trying. It was easy to picture him as a father.

After we got married, we started to build a life that felt like ours. And somewhere along the way, I started to see how we could actually become a family. It wasn’t this big, impossible idea anymore, but rather something within reach.

Then last year, it became clear in an instant.

Four of our nieces were born in four months, and I had never been around newborns like that before. I was suddenly in it—around babies all the time, seeing what those early days actually look like.

And when we went to the hospital after my younger brother’s baby was born, I held her for the first time—and it hit me. Nurses moving in and out, everything happening around us—it all faded. It was just her in my arms—her little blue eyes, her strawberry blonde hair.

Something in me shifted and locked into place.

It was abundantly clear: I still want to be a father—and I still can be.

This week, we’re meeting with a fertility clinic to talk through our options. We’ve spent months getting here—researching, talking it through with each other and our families, and praying to know how to move forward.

It’s a small step, but it holds so much. And it feels right.

For a long time, I thought being a dad might not be part of my story.

Now, we’re stepping toward it, and I can’t wait!