At this point, I’m used to the looks. The double takes. The whispers.
Some folks smile like it’s sweet. Others look borderline panicked—like my existence confirms their deepest fear about parenthood.
But no one ever asks. They just assume I’m some overwhelmed dad dragging a mini soccer team behind me.
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The truth?
Only two of them are mine.
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The rest… well, it started as a favor.
A friend of a friend was in a bind—she had a work emergency and no one to watch her kids for the weekend. I said yes without really thinking. Then it happened again. Then her sister called. Then someone from her church.
Before I knew it, I was the guy people called when they had no one else. “Oh, ask Joel,” they’d say. “He’s good with kids.”
And I guess I am.
But here’s the thing that nobody knows: I didn’t do it just because I’m “good with kids.” I did it because I was lonely.
I didn’t start out thinking I would become the neighborhood’s unofficial babysitter. At first, it was just a couple of weekends here and there. People would drop off their kids, and I would entertain them while they ran errands or had a night out. But then it started to snowball. More parents needed help, and I was the one who showed up. My home, a small house with just enough room for me and my two kids, began to feel like a daycare.
I told myself I was just helping out. That it wasn’t a big deal. That it would be temporary.
But it wasn’t.
The truth is, I wasn’t exactly living my best life. My wife and I had separated a few years back, and even though I had two kids to keep me busy, there was this hollow feeling that kept eating at me. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but I felt disconnected from everything. The nights alone after the kids went to bed were the hardest. It wasn’t just the silence; it was the realization that I was a father, but I wasn’t a partner. I had this huge void, and I didn’t know how to fill it.
So, when people asked me to watch their kids, I said yes. Every time. The kids filled that void, even if it was only for a few hours at a time. I didn’t have to think about the loneliness when I had little voices around me, demanding attention, telling me stories, showing me pictures they’d drawn.
I started to look forward to the chaos. The noise. The running around. It distracted me from everything I was feeling deep inside. It wasn’t about being a good guy anymore. It was about filling the silence with something—anything.
Fast forward to the present, and now, when I walk around with six kids trailing behind me, it’s second nature. I know the routine. I know how to handle the stares. The occasional gasp when someone notices I’m not their dad, but their temporary guardian. The looks of judgment when people see how many kids I’m juggling at once.
But I never let it get to me. I know the truth of the situation. I know these kids’ stories. I know the reasons their parents can’t always be there, the reasons they trust me to step in. And in a weird way, I’ve become part of their lives, just as they’ve become part of mine.
That said, it wasn’t all smooth sailing.
One afternoon, after picking up all the kids from school, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park, my arms full of backpacks and lunchboxes, while the kids ran around playing. A couple of moms passed by, and one of them gave me that look—the one that said, “Are you really doing this?” She didn’t say anything, but I could see it in her eyes. I was the outlier in the group. The single dad who suddenly had more kids than anyone could reasonably handle.
And that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just helping anymore. I was being judged. I felt this pang in my chest—something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before. I was being othered. There were moments when I started to wonder if people were pitying me for how “out of control” my life seemed. Did they think I was incapable of keeping my own family together? Did they think I was some kind of hero or fool for stepping in to help strangers?
I started to second-guess myself. Maybe I’d been saying yes for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I had let the loneliness blind me to the fact that I wasn’t just doing this to help others—I was doing it to mask my own pain. And that wasn’t healthy for anyone.
So, one night, when I got a call from yet another mom asking for a favor, I hesitated. I knew it was time to draw a line.
“I think I need to take a break,” I told her. “I’m not saying I won’t help out, but I need to slow down a bit.”
For the first time, I felt guilty. I worried about disappointing people. But I also knew deep down that I had to do this. It wasn’t just about the kids. It was about me.
It was time to get back to my own life.
The next few weeks were tough. I spent more time with my two kids, just the three of us. It felt good to reconnect with them on a deeper level, to focus on us without all the extra noise. We did things together. We went to the zoo, baked cookies, and played board games in the living room. My heart, which had been stretched thin with the weight of so many children, slowly began to heal.
But just when I thought I had it all figured out, a phone call changed everything.
It was from Sarah, the mom who had started it all. She was frantic. Her husband had been in a car accident, and she had no one to watch her kids for the week. She had to travel to the hospital, and the doctors had just told her it was serious.
For a moment, I hesitated. I had promised myself I wouldn’t get back into that cycle, but the look on her face when she described her situation made me feel like I had no choice. I told her I would help.
This time, however, it was different. I had learned to set boundaries. I agreed to help, but only for a few days. No more long-term commitments. And I told her that I needed time for myself, too. I wasn’t going to let the weight of everyone else’s lives push me into neglecting my own.
When the week was over, I felt something change in me. I didn’t just help Sarah out of obligation or loneliness—I helped because I wanted to, but on my terms. I had learned that helping others didn’t mean losing myself in the process.
Here’s the karmic twist, though. A few months later, after Sarah’s husband recovered, she reached out to me with an opportunity I never expected. She worked in HR for a large company, and they were looking to hire someone for a family-focused role. She had recommended me, and I ended up getting the job.
It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the stability. The peace. The feeling that I was finally starting to piece my life back together.
I learned that helping others is important, but it’s just as important to take care of yourself. You can’t pour from an empty cup. By saying no when I needed to, by setting boundaries, I not only gave myself the space to heal, but I also opened the door for something better to come into my life.
So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed or like you’re constantly giving, remember this: it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to take a step back and take care of yourself. In the end, it’s about finding balance, not just for the people around you, but for your own well-being.
If this story resonates with you, don’t forget to share it. We all need a reminder now and then that it’s okay to put ourselves first. Take care of you, so you can take care of others.
