Right now, to them, I’m just Dad.
The guy who makes the best pancakes, gives piggyback rides that turn into stampedes, and can do a surprisingly decent cartoon voice when reading bedtime stories. They don’t ask why I’m shorter. They don’t notice that other dads don’t get stared at in the grocery store. To them, I’m just… me.
But I know that won’t last forever.
One day, they’re going to notice the differences. My daughter might come home asking why the other parents at school don’t get mistaken for kids. My son might overhear a cruel joke and not understand why it makes him so mad until he sees me across the parking lot, holding his lunchbox.
And when that day comes, I just hope I’ve done enough.
Enough for them to still see the strength behind the struggle. Enough for them to know that showing up—every morning, every tantrum, every scraped knee and sleepless night—is its own kind of power.
I don’t need them to think I’m perfect. I just want them to remember that I never used anything as an excuse. That I built a life around love, not limitations. That I never stopped laughing, even when things weren’t fair.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering how I’ll explain it to them. How I’ll sit them down one day and tell them the truth—tell them about the condition that’s been part of my life since birth. I’ve always known that it’s different, that it’s made things harder, but until they start noticing, I don’t think I’ve ever truly understood the weight of what I’m facing.
I have a form of dwarfism. It’s not something that can be hidden forever, but up until now, it hasn’t been something that has defined who I am to my kids. To them, I’m just Dad—the guy who lifts them high in the air when they ask, even if it takes more effort than it does for most fathers. But I know, one day, they’ll start to ask questions. They’ll notice the way people sometimes look at us a little too long when we’re out, or how the jokes at school sting more than they let on.
For now, though, I’ve made a point to give them as normal a childhood as possible. I make sure they know they can rely on me, even if I have to get creative sometimes. And if they notice that I’m not as tall as other dads, I brush it off with humor. “Hey, what can I say? I’m just compact,” I joke, and they laugh, because to them, I am still the man who makes them feel safe and loved.
But as time passes, I know the inevitable is coming. And when it does, I hope I’ve laid enough of a foundation for them to understand that it doesn’t matter how tall I am or how different I might look—what matters is that I’m there. I’m there at their games, at their school events, when they need a hug after a rough day. I’m there when they ask me to teach them how to ride a bike, or when they want to know how I make the pancakes just right.
But there’s always that nagging fear in the back of my mind. What if my kids grow up and see my condition as something that limits them? What if they feel embarrassed by me, or worse—feel sorry for me? I can’t control how they might feel when they understand the depth of my condition. But what I can control is how I raise them. I can make sure they know that strength doesn’t come from physical appearance; it comes from the heart. It’s about resilience and love, not about fitting into some societal expectation.
One evening, after dinner, my daughter—a sweet, sensitive soul who’s already starting to ask questions about everything—asked me something that made my stomach tighten.
“Dad, why are you smaller than other dads?” she asked, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch, her face curious but not unkind.
I froze for a moment. I had always known this question would come, but I wasn’t prepared for it yet.
“Well,” I started, trying to keep my voice steady, “you know how some people are tall and others are short? I’m just… a little different.”
“But why? How come?” she pressed.
I took a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. I didn’t want to burden her with my struggles. But I also wanted to be honest with her.
“Some people are born tall, some are born small. My body is just made differently, that’s all. It doesn’t stop me from doing anything, though. I can still do all the things that make us a family, right? Pancakes, piggyback rides, cartoons before bed.”
She nodded, her wide brown eyes softening. “I like you just the way you are,” she said, and her words, so simple and pure, almost brought me to tears.
But I still couldn’t shake the worry. What if she doesn’t feel that way when she’s older?
That night, after the kids had gone to bed, I sat with my wife, Leah, and we talked about what the future might look like. The challenges we might face as they grow older. How we could help them understand without making it feel like a big deal.
“I know they’ll eventually understand,” I said, running my fingers through my hair, “but what if they look at me differently? What if they feel embarrassed? It’s one thing for me to deal with it, but I don’t want them to carry it too.”
Leah took my hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “They won’t. Not if you keep showing them that who you are is so much more than your height. You’ve already set the example, love. The way you’ve never let anything hold you back—they see that.”
I wanted to believe her, I did. But there was always that fear in the back of my mind. The fear of the day when they’d start seeing me as “other.”
As the months passed, my kids continued to grow, and so did my own understanding of what it meant to be their dad. I did everything I could to make sure they felt proud of me, just as proud as I felt of them. But then, one day, the unexpected happened.
We were at the grocery store, doing our usual Saturday morning routine. My son, Jack, was pushing the cart while I grabbed some cans from a high shelf. I noticed a young boy staring at me, then whispering something to his mom. I didn’t think much of it at first. But then I heard the word “freak” slip from his lips, just loud enough for me to catch.
I froze.
Jack turned to look at the boy, his face scrunching in confusion, but before I could say anything, my son stepped forward, his voice clear and loud. “He’s not a freak! He’s my dad. And he’s the best dad ever!”
The mom looked horrified, quickly pulling her son away, but I couldn’t focus on her. All I could think about was the look on Jack’s face. The fierce, protective look. I knelt down to his level, my heart swelling with pride.
“Jack, what you said was really brave,” I told him. “But you don’t need to protect me. You know that, right? You can stand up for people, but remember, it’s important to always treat others with kindness.”
He nodded, his face still red from the exchange. “I just didn’t like that he said that about you.”
I smiled, ruffling his hair. “I know, buddy. But I want you to know something—you don’t have to fight everyone’s battles. You just need to keep being yourself. That’s all you can do. And that’s what makes you amazing.”
That moment felt like a turning point. In that one simple act of courage, Jack had shown me something important—that my kids didn’t just love me because I was their dad, but because they understood the power of standing up for what’s right. They understood that people might judge, but they didn’t have to let it define them or the people they loved.
A few weeks later, as I was finishing up a project in the garage, Jack came to me with something that made my heart swell.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, holding something behind his back. “I made this for you.”
He handed me a framed picture, a drawing of our family. The usual stuff—Leah, the kids, and me. But this time, he’d drawn me as a giant, towering over everyone else. His depiction of me was a proud, strong dad. I smiled, my heart heavy with love and gratitude.
“Why the giant?” I asked with a smile.
“Because you’re my hero, Dad. And heroes are bigger than everyone else.”
In that moment, I realized that I had already given them what they needed. Not just a role model, but someone who was honest, who lived without excuses, who showed them that strength comes in all sizes and shapes. And that’s a lesson that can’t be taken away, no matter what the future holds.
So here’s my message: You are more than your limitations. More than the things that try to define you. The people who love you—especially your children—will see your strength long before they see anything else. Keep showing up. Keep being there. And let love and laughter be the legacy you leave.
Share this if you believe that the greatest strength comes from the heart, not the height.
