Sad dad summer is here

My two younger children had a sudden urge to tidy up on a recent Saturday morning. I was shocked. My kids are 10 and 12, so the days when it was fun to clean with a toy feather duster, mop, and broom exist only in my fading memories.

My daughter cleared out and organized a desk where she keeps, for lack of a better term, an assortment of trash. I guess it's supposed to be her arts-and-crafts area, but it seems to serve mostly as a hangout spot for bits of paper and beads and pieces of cardboard with random items glued on. The locals rave about it. It's a place you can get lost in and escape the trash bin for months, if not years.

Meanwhile, my son asked for my phone so he could listen to "Orbiter," a song by Noah Kahan, and proceeded to clear off and reorganize a couple of shelves cluttered with games and decrepit old books. Inexplicably, we sorted almost everything into the keep pile, but hey, at least the stacks on the shelves became a bit more angular and crisp. We also put the old toy feather duster to use. What can I say: we don't clean a lot, and we don't get rid of things often, so the toy duster is still here consistently cluttering up a corner and is also our best cleaning implement.

The cleaning frenzy didn't last long. Nothing does. Children grow up. The years slip past. Forgotten toys collect dust in bins and on disorganized shelves. Yet here, in a crowded combination dining room/playroom that feels mostly like a museum commemorating a lifetime of my children's interests, I still sit typing away on my loyal laptop at the end of a paint-splattered table.

I've been a stay-at-home parent for over a decade now, and this in-between space where the children are more self-sufficient in many ways, but still reliant on me for transportation and peanut butter jelly sandwich assembly, is rather confusing. Many years ago, I naively assumed my life would change dramatically when all my kids started full-time school. But when the much-anticipated start of school for my youngest came and went (more than five years ago now!), it felt like nothing really changed.

Shockingly, after a decade of fitful self-employment or outright unemployment, I was unable to seamlessly transition into a financially lucrative and emotionally rewarding career between the hours of 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. I wrote some radio ads until AI swept that freelance job into the abyss, I wrote a book that very few people read, and I continued to edit a parenting humor publication . None of these activities paid much, if anything, and they didn't bring me any sustained level of personal satisfaction.

Now, from the outside, being a full-time parent for more than a decade while maintaining a decent portfolio of side quests might seem like more than enough for one person to do. And objectively, it probably is, but I've yet to mention the one major contributor to my ongoing angst about my perceived lack of productivity and the relentless passage of time: mental illness.

Most days, my brain feels as cluttered as our bookshelves before the Great Shelf Cleaning of 2026. Persistent thoughts swirl through my head with the ferocity and predictability of afternoon thunderstorms on a Florida summer afternoon. There's the normal parenting stuff rattling around in there — schedules, lists, chores, everyday worries — but I'm lucky enough to have a little something extra to obsess over. My brain loves to throw in a little razzle-dazzle to keep things interesting.

It took me decades to understand that my worries and obsessions aren't like most other people's. I've always had this intense need to be liked and admired, even by people I have no real relationship with. I assumed this was normal. I mean, who doesn't want to be beloved? However, some recent experiences and a healthy dose of internet research led me to the conclusion that my obsessions are at least a little pathological.

I'm a high-functioning depressive, which is honestly a very strange place to be because while I can manage my daily responsibilities to an extent, any variance from the routine feels catastrophic. When a child gets sick, and I have to call to make a doctor's appointment, the world might as well be ending. When school lets out, and the kids' summer activity schedule takes over, I feel paralyzed. I spend a lot of time driving kids around to various activities, and attempting to fill an hour or two here or there with meaningful tasks (aside from my standard chores like laundry and grocery shopping) feels impossible.

Planning ahead and figuring out what my life might look like when I reach my next parenting milestone (whatever that might be)? Out of the question.

The best I can hope for is to keep the shelves orderly and the kitchen counter cleaned off (kind of). I spend the rest of my free time trying to trick my brain into behaving. And trying my best to drown out the voice in my head that always tells me I'm not doing enough. That I'm a disappointment. That people are mad at me. That I should've achieved more by this point in my life.

I grew up in a time when mental health was rarely talked about. At least in small towns like the one I'm from on the Space Coast of Florida. When I started taking antidepressants and anxiety medications around 2006, when I was in my mid-20s, it was a dark secret I held close. I lived in constant fear that I would bump into someone I know in the waiting room of my psychiatrist's office.

I have social anxiety, major depressive disorder, and I've recently learned, likely some degree of OCD. I'm grateful that it's much more socially acceptable to talk about mental health diagnoses and medications than it was twenty years ago. The culture has shifted. Young people seem to be much more open and accepting. I've seen it with my kids as they enter their middle school and high school years. In addition, many musicians, actors, athletes, and other public figures routinely advocate for mental health causes.

For example, one of my favorite musical artists, Noah Kahan, has been extremely forthcoming about his struggles with depression and OCD. Much to the rest of my family's chagrin, my son and I have had his new album, The Great Divide, on repeat for months now. We listen to pretty much nothing else. Sad music helps quiet my brain and make me feel less isolated; meanwhile, my son simply loves the catchy hooks. The album is filled with lyrical gems, but there's one in the song "We Go Way Back" that I keep returning to.

"Tell me I don't need options, that I have substance, that I'm important

If it's only for lettin' dogs out, sweepin' porches, to make me nothin'"

That line hit me like a ton of bricks the first time I heard it. Possibly because it's highly likely I was, in fact, sweeping a porch or letting the dogs out while listening to it for the first time. It's always comforting to learn that doubts about self-worth and the value of domestic labor are universal. Mental health episodes are extremely isolating. It's so easy to forget that others share your struggle while you're in the depths of a depressive spiral.

I've been racking my brain trying to come up with a satisfying way to end this essay. I typically love callbacks and bringing things full circle. I love essays and songs and comedic sketches that end with a return to the beginning, often with a subtle and pleasing twist. However, this time around, I'm giving myself grace.

If there's one thing I've learned over a lifetime spent struggling with mental health, it's that it's important to know your limits. Summers are hard for me. They have been since I became a stay-at-home parent. They're chaotic, and I dearly miss my routines that my kids' summer schedules completely obliterate. Yes, another sad dad summer is here. I'm sad about the things I haven't done, the time that has passed, and the things that feel like they are slipping away. The long, hot days with kids playing in the sprinklers, jumping on the trampoline, and eating popsicles that will soon be gone forever.

There is no solution to any of this. There's no tidy ending. So, right now, I'm not going to beat myself up trying to create the perfect piece of writing or turn myself into the person my brain tells me I should be.

Instead, I'm letting go. I sit in the backyard on these long summer evenings, trying my best to enjoy being outside despite the 99 percent humidity and the ravenous mosquitoes. I watch the dogs chase each other around in circles, etching paths in our unkempt dirt and leaf-covered yard (I should really be cleaning up the yard or maybe… stop it! ).

I watch my kids play. I talk to my wife when she comes home from work. And while I'm sweeping porches, I try my best to sweep the negative thoughts away so I can enjoy a moment's peace and appreciate our freshly reorganized shelves.

This story originally appeared at The Pomegranate .