By Gowher Bhat
Nothing could have prepared me for the weight of holding someone so completely mine.
I first held Sundus at 3 a.m., in a room lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Her tiny chest rose and fell with a fragile, steady rhythm. I whispered to her, almost to myself, “How am I supposed to love someone so small so completely?”
For months before her arrival, I had imagined this moment endlessly: quiet nights, gentle rocking, tiny hands curling around mine, the first tentative smiles, her eyes meeting mine for the very first time. And somewhere under all the hope was a quiet worry, what if I can’t do this?
Late one evening, while sitting in the nursery with my wife, I found myself speaking aloud the fears I had carried for weeks. “I keep imagining all the ways I might mess up,” I said softly.
My wife reached for my hand, resting hers on mine. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she said gently. “All you need to do is be there. That’s enough. You’ll see.”
Her words stayed with me. I realised then that fatherhood wasn’t about knowing all the answers. It was about presence, patience, and the willingness to feel everything fully. And we were in this together, learning step by step, moment by moment.
When Sundus finally arrived, the world became a delicate rhythm of small, luminous acts. Nights blurred into mornings filled with feeding, rocking, wiping tiny faces, humming songs we barely remembered. I watched my wife navigate these first days with patience and care, and together we learned to notice the subtle changes in Sundus’s breathing, the way her little body stiffened when curious, or relaxed when comforted. Each gesture became a promise, I am here, we see you, we will stay with you.
But the early months were not without fear. The first time Sundus was hospitalised, I felt a pain I could never have imagined. My wife tried to feed her, letting her suck as hard as she could, but the milk wasn’t coming through enough. Sundus’s tiny lips were raw from all the effort, and still, she struggled. When her sodium levels rose dangerously high, I felt my heart split in two, as if a hot, sharp knife had cut right through it. Watching her in the ICU, so small and fragile, my chest ached with every tiny cry she made. We whispered encouragements that felt almost powerless, holding her little hands, willing her to be safe. After six long days, once she was stable, Sundus was gently put on formula milk. I had never realised before how terrifying it could be to love someone so completely, and how fiercely protective a father’s heart can ache.
There was a small scare when Sundus had a minor health issue and seeing her so tiny under the gaze of doctors made our hearts ache. Every cry she let out cut deeper than I could have imagined. I held her hand and whispered, “We are right here with you,” while my wife stroked her hair softly, murmuring, “It’s going to be okay, baby.” In that moment, I understood how our own parents must have felt, fear, helplessness, and a love so intense it can almost hurt.
One particularly long night, after another restless evening, I slumped in the chair and whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
My wife leaned over, brushing my hair from my forehead. “Look at you,” she said softly. “You’re doing this. You’re here. You’re enough. I see you. Sundus sees you.”
In that moment, I understood that fatherhood was less about courage or perfection and more about vulnerability. And in that vulnerability, I found a kind of strength I hadn’t known existed, the strength to be fully awake, fully present, fully human, alongside the person who shared this journey with me.
Now, at eight months, fatherhood reveals itself in small miracles that arrive unannounced. Sundus’s first laugh that lights up the room, the way she reaches for a toy with tiny fingers, the tilt of her head when my voice calls her name, they are moments too precious to be planned. Each one feels eternal, luminous, and grounding all at once.
Even though Sundus doesn’t speak yet, her smile and her eyes say everything. Each look, each tiny gesture carries a language all her own, telling us joy, curiosity, comfort, and trust without a single word. In those moments, it feels as though she is having long conversations with us, and we understand her perfectly.
I watch Sundus explore the world with wide-eyed curiosity, and I am reminded that love is both ordinary and extraordinary. It is in quiet sighs of contentment, in the trust of falling asleep in my arms, in the small discoveries she makes each day. Every moment is a thread weaving us together, a connection invisible to anyone but us. My wife and I share those moments, sometimes in laughter, sometimes in whispered awe, sometimes in the silent gratitude of being a little family.
I talk to Sundus constantly, narrating the world as she notices it, “Look at this leaf turning golden,” I say, or “See how the sunlight falls across the floor?”. My wife does the same, her voice soft and steady, full of warmth. Even though Sundus cannot respond in words yet, I know she hears us, I know she feels it.
She reaches for our hands often, tiny fingers curling around our thumbs, and every time she does, the world narrows to this circle of warmth and trust. Every cry, every sigh, every tiny movement speaks to me in ways I cannot fully name. I whisper, “I love you, Sundus,” and my wife echoes it softly, almost as if the walls of the room themselves could carry the weight of our love.
Fatherhood is not about routines or perfection. It is about noticing, feeling, responding. It is about showing up every day for someone who depends on you completely. Even in quiet, uncelebrated moments, it is extraordinary.
The mornings when Sundus wakes with a new curiosity in her eyes, the afternoons when she naps across my chest, the evenings when my wife and I share a quiet tea while watching her drift to sleep, all of these moments accumulate into a kind of living memory that feels sacred and ordinary at the same time. The hospital scares, the sleepless nights, all of it has carved space in my heart deeper than I ever thought possible, a space I now carry with love and awareness.
Sometimes, I catch my wife looking at Sundus and whispering, “She is ours, isn’t she?” Her eyes glisten, and I nod, realising that every joy and every fear belongs to both of us equally. Even the silent, unnoticed moments, like watching her eyelids flutter during a nap, or feeling her tiny sighs against my chest, carry meaning that words cannot hold.
Looking back on the months before Sundus’s birth, I understand that imagining fatherhood was not rehearsal for perfection. It was preparation for presence. Anticipation taught me patience, empathy, and the courage to love fully, imperfectly, and unreservedly. Sharing this journey with my wife has made every moment richer, every fear lighter, every joy deeper.
The first time Sundus rolled over on her own, I felt a surge of pride and awe. My wife and I celebrated quietly, as though the world beyond our room did not exist. The small milestones, the tiny gestures, the new sounds she makes, all carry weight far beyond their size. Each moment is a new discovery, a lesson in patience, in wonder, in presence.
Eight months into this journey, I am still learning. Every smile, every gesture, every fleeting glance teaches me something new about love, presence, and wonder. Fatherhood is beyond imagination, yet it begins in imagination. It is ordinary and extraordinary, quiet and luminous, intimate and universal.
Every night, when I hold Sundus close and see her nestled against her mother, I know this truth with absolute certainty. To love and be loved in this way is the most profound gift life can offer. Perhaps in these quiet months, we also come to understand something deeper about life itself, the fragile, luminous weight of love, patience, and presence that threads generations together, unseen but unbreakable.
And in the moments between laughter and tears, between cries that feel like knives through the heart and sighs of contentment, we feel the invisible, enduring pulse of family, of trust, of presence, of love that makes all the sleepless nights, the hospital fears, and the quiet anxieties worthwhile. Sundus, you are my world.
Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir.
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