Work Hard. Dad Harder.

A Father’s Battle to Balance a Demanding Job with the Little Moments That Matter Most

There are two kinds of dads you’ll find hunched over a laptop at 9 p.m.:

1. The ones frantically catching up on work.

2. The ones writing a blog post about trying not to frantically catch up on work.

Tonight, I’m firmly in camp #2. Though let’s be honest — if you shook my laptop just right, about 74 unread emails would probably fall out like loose Cheerios from a car seat.

Because that’s the truth of it. I’m a VP of Operations for a busy company. I manage a lot of people. I run a lot of numbers. I fix a lot of problems. On paper, it looks good — and in my heart, it feels good most days too. I genuinely love my job. It excites me. I’m happy to do it. I’m proud of the life it helps provide.

But here’s the other truth: at the end of those long days, I also try to be Dad. Not just-a-ghost-at-the-dinner-table Dad. Not give-me-five-more-minutes Dad. But real, present, on-the-floor-being-used-as-a-human-jungle-gym Dad.

And holy hell is that a hard balance sometimes.

Work Hard, Dad Harder

I go to work every day for one simple reason: my family.
Every spreadsheet, every phone call, every strategic plan is for them — to build a life where we can do things together, go places together, experience the world together.

But explaining that to a toddler who’s tugging at your leg and saying, “Daddy, no work today!” is like trying to explain quantum physics to a Goldfish cracker.

She doesn’t know I’m doing it for her. She just knows I’m not there right now.

Cue the guilt.

That gut-punch moment where you look at the clock, see it creeping toward bedtime, and think:
"They only have a few hours of this day left. Am I really going to spend them responding to another email about delivery schedules?"

But sometimes you do. Because the job is big. The responsibilities are real. Other people — many people — depend on you. And success in this role does, very practically, translate into success at home. The plane tickets. The zoo passes. The ice cream shop runs on random Tuesdays. The ability to say yes to those magical things that do cost money.

And yet.

The Exhaustion Tax

Here’s the hardest part: by the time you do check out of work, you’re often drained.

And that’s exactly when the second shift starts.

The “Dad shift” isn’t optional. It’s not something you pencil in on your calendar. It’s the most important job you have — and it starts the moment your hand hits that doorknob in the evening.

Some nights, I’m all in.
Other nights, I feel like an empty tank trying to run a marathon.

But there’s no tapping out when your toddler wants to run, jump, and climb you like a tree. When she demands you order the “special dinner” she’s just prepared from her toy kitchen (which, based on recent experience, is a bold blend of plastic toast, wooden fish, and a rubber tomato).

And you know what? You do it.
You take the fake plate.
You rave about the flavor.
You clap when she beams with pride.

Because those are the moments that matter.

I’ve learned this: being a dad is a job where exhaustion is part of the benefits package. You accept it because the tradeoff is joy — pure, unfiltered, unpredictable joy.

The Metrics That Matter

At work, I measure success in numbers.

Margins. Completion rates. Labor-to-production ratios.

At home, the metrics look different:

• How many belly laughs did I get today?

• How long did she want to hold my hand on our walk?

• Did we find a rainbow and talk about it until the sun went down?

(We did, the other day. And explaining how rainbows happen to a fascinated little human is better than closing any deal you’ll ever land.)

I want to do both jobs better. I want to be a better leader at work. A better father at home. A better husband through it all.

I don’t want to be the guy who looks back one day and says, “Well, I built a hell of a career — too bad I missed my daughter’s childhood while I was at it.”

And I don’t think I will be.
But it takes intentionality. It takes boundaries. It takes constant adjustments.

The Attempt at Balance

Here’s what I’ve learned (and am still learning):

• Set a hard stop. When I’m done for the day, I try to really be done. No email checks during dinner. No laptop open on the couch.

• Prioritize moments over tasks. If it’s the last half hour before bedtime, the report can wait. Hide and seek wins.

• Communicate with your spouse. We try to set expectations — when it’s okay to talk about work, and when it’s time to shut it down.

• Accept imperfection. Some days you’ll nail it. Some days you’ll suck at it. Keep showing up. Kids remember presence more than perfection.

And maybe most importantly: remember why you’re doing all this in the first place.

For me, success isn’t a title. It’s not a salary. It’s hearing, “Daddy, can we go on an adventure today?” and being able to say yes — both because we can afford to, and because I have the time and energy to do it.

So I’ll keep running both races.
I’ll take the exhaustion.
I’ll take the guilt — and turn it into action.

Because when that little voice says, “Daddy, don’t go to work today,” I want to be able to tell her, one day: “I always went to work for you. But I also always came home for you.”

And when she looks back, I hope she remembers not just that her dad provided — but that he played. He laughed. He explored. He found rainbows with her.

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Tonight’s Cocktail: The Work-Life Balancer

Because some nights, after the toddler tornado clears and you finally sit down, you need a drink that reminds you of both sides of the equation.

Ingredients:

• 1½ oz dark rum (aged or spiced)

• ¾ oz amaro (something herbal like Averna or Ramazzotti)

• ½ oz black walnut liqueur

• 2 dashes Angostura bitters

• Orange peel

Instructions:
Stir all ingredients with ice until well chilled. Strain into a rocks glass over one large cube. Express the orange peel over the drink and drop it in.

Notes:
This is a slow sip — complex, bittersweet, a little nutty. The kind of drink you pour after a long day when the laptop’s finally shut, the house is quiet, and you’re taking stock of what really mattered.

Pairs well with:
Wondering if you gave enough energy to your toddler today.
Reminding yourself that being present > being perfect.
Counting your wins in giggles, not dollars.