The Dad Dilemma

A story about masks, mortgages, and the quiet tug-of-war between art and obligation.

There’s a moment that happens most mornings in my house.

It’s small. Almost invisible.

One child is asking for cereal that is, for reasons only known to the gods of breakfast, unacceptable today. The other is halfway through building a fort that apparently cannot survive without immediate structural engineering input. The kettle is screaming. The clock is judging. And I’m standing there, somewhere between pouring milk and negotiating treaties, wondering a question that feels far too large for the room:

Who am I supposed to be today?

Am I the dad? Or am I the storyteller?

And here’s the uncomfortable truth, the one that doesn’t make it into the cheerful social media posts or the tidy bios:

Sometimes, those two feel like completely different men.

The Myth of the Provider

I grew up, like many of us, with a story already written for me.

Not told outright, mind you, no one gathered me round the fire and said, “Son, here is your destiny: you shall work, provide, endure.” It was subtler than that. It was in the background hum of things. The quiet expectations. The way men spoke about work like it was weather, unavoidable, often unpleasant, but necessary.

You grow up hearing phrases like:

“Put food on the table.”“Be a good provider.”“Do what needs to be done.”

And somewhere along the way, it settles into your bones like an old song you didn’t realise you’d memorised.

So you don’t question it.

Not really.

Until one day, you do.

The Trouble with Loving Something

Because here’s the complication, the twist in the tale:

I didn’t just stumble into a job.

I fell in love with something.

Storytelling. Performance. The craft of holding a room with your voice and guiding people through laughter, silence, and something that lingers long after the lights go down.

It’s not just work. It’s identity. It’s the place where I feel most myself.

And that’s where the dilemma begins.

Because loving something like that, truly loving it, is, in many ways, a selfish act.

It demands time. It demands energy. It demands a kind of devotion that doesn’t always leave room for anything else.

And when you add children into the mix, small, brilliant, chaotic humans who also demand time, energy, and devotion, something has to give.

Or at least, it feels like it does.

The Word “Selfish”

Let’s sit with that word for a moment.

Selfish.

It gets thrown around like an accusation, doesn’t it?

But what does it actually mean in this context?

Is it selfish to pursue something that makes you feel alive?Is it selfish to want more than just survival?Is it selfish to refuse to quietly step into a life that doesn’t fit?

Or, and this is the uncomfortable flip side -

Is it selfish to not choose the path that offers more stability, more security, more predictability for your family?

That’s the knot.

That’s the tension that doesn’t neatly untangle.

Because no matter which way you turn it, someone loses a little.

The 9–5 Question

Ah yes. The mythical creature. The steady job. The “normal” life.

It sits there like a sensible pair of shoes by the door, practical, reliable, and entirely lacking in magic.

And I’ve considered it. Of course I have. You’d have to be either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish not to.

A 9–5 offers things that the creative life often doesn’t:

Consistency.Predictability.A clear, measurable sense of progress.

And, perhaps most importantly – security.

The kind of security that means you don’t lie awake at night mentally calculating invoices, gigs, and possibilities like some sort of financial Tetris.

The kind of security that feels like you’re doing the “right” thing.

But here’s the problem.

Every time I seriously imagine stepping fully into that world, there’s a quiet voice that whispers:

This isn’t you.

Not in a dramatic, storm-the-castle kind of way. More like a slow, steady erosion. A dulling of something essential.

And that’s where the fear creeps in. Not the fear of failure.

But the fear of losing myself.

The Betrayal

It’s a strong word.

But it’s the one that fits.

Because choosing a path that moves away from your craft, from the thing that defines you, doesn’t just feel like a career decision.

It feels like a betrayal.

Of your younger self.Of your passion.Of every moment you stood on a stage and thought, this is it, this is what I’m meant to do.

And yet…

There’s another voice.

Quieter, but no less persistent.

It says:

What about them?

Your kids.

Your family.

The people who rely on you not just for stories and laughter, but for stability, safety, and a future that feels secure.

And suddenly, the question shifts.

It’s no longer just:

What do I want?

It becomes:

What do they need?

The False Choice

Here’s where things get interesting.

Because the narrative we often inherit, the one that fuels this entire dilemma, is built on a very specific assumption:

That you have to choose.

That it’s one or the other.

Art or stability.Passion or responsibility.Self or family.

But what if that’s the real problem?

What if the dilemma isn’t actually about choosing between two worlds…

…but about trying to force yourself into a binary that doesn’t reflect reality anymore?

Because let’s be honest, the idea that a man must be the sole provider, sacrificing everything else in the process, is a story from a different time.

A different economy.

A different understanding of what a family even is.

We don’t live there anymore.

And yet, the script lingers.

A Different Kind of Providing

What does it mean to provide?

Really?

Is it purely financial?

Is it measured in paycheques and pension plans?

Or is there more to it?

Because when I look at my kids, when I really look - I don’t see them asking for a perfectly optimised financial future.

I see them asking for:

Presence.

Connection.

Joy.

Stories.

I see them watching me. Learning from me. Absorbing, in ways I can’t fully measure, what it means to live a life.

And that’s where things get complicated again.

Because what am I teaching them if I abandon the thing that makes me feel alive?

What story am I passing on then?

The Hidden Curriculum

Children are brilliant observers. They don’t just listen to what you say. They watch what you do.

So if they see a father who:

Chooses safety over passion,Stability over joy,Duty over identity…

What do they learn?

Perhaps they learn responsibility.

But do they also learn compromise in its most corrosive form?

Do they learn that adulthood is, essentially, the slow surrender of everything that once made you feel alive?

And is that really the lesson I want to leave behind?

The Other Extreme

Now, before we wander too far into romantic nonsense, let’s balance the scales.

Because the creative life isn’t some noble, selfless pursuit either.

It can be chaotic. Unpredictable. Financially stressful.

There are moments, many of them, where the weight of uncertainty feels heavy enough to crack the strongest sense of purpose.

And in those moments, the idea of a steady job doesn’t feel like betrayal.

It feels like relief. Like stepping out of a storm.

So let’s not pretend this is a simple case of “follow your passion and everything will work out.”

That’s a lovely story. It’s just not always a true one.

Living in the Tension

So where does that leave us?

Right here. In the middle. In the messy, uncomfortable, unresolved space between two competing truths:

You want to honour your craft. You want to support your family.

And neither of those desires is wrong.

The challenge, the real work, is learning how to live in that tension without letting it tear you apart.

Because maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate the dilemma.

Maybe the goal is to navigate it.

Redefining Success

What if success isn’t a fixed point?

What if it’s not a single decision, a definitive moment where you choose one path and close the door on the other?

What if it’s fluid?

Evolving?

Contextual?

There may be seasons where stability takes priority.

Moments where you lean more into the practical, the predictable, the necessary.

And there may be seasons where the creative life expands again, where you take risks, push boundaries, and chase the work that lights you up.

That’s not failure.

That’s adaptation.

The Identity Shift

Perhaps the hardest part of all this isn’t the logistics.

It’s the identity.

Letting go of the idea that you have to be one thing.

The storyteller. The provider. The artist. The dad.

What if you’re all of them?

What if the tension exists because you’re trying to separate things that are, in reality, deeply connected?

Because being a father doesn’t erase your identity as an artist.

And being an artist doesn’t disqualify you from being a responsible, present, supportive dad.

The trick, if there is one, is integration.

Not separation.

A Different Story

Maybe the story we need to tell ourselves is this:

That providing isn’t just about money.

That passion isn’t inherently selfish.

That responsibility doesn’t require self-erasure.

That it’s possible, not easy, but possible, to build a life that honours both who you are and who you care for.

It might not look like the traditional model.

It might not feel as secure as the old scripts promise.

But it might be more honest.

More aligned.

More you.

The Morning Moment (Revisited)

So we come back to the kitchen.

To the cereal negotiations and the architectural crisis of the blanket fort.

To the kettle. To the clock. To the quiet question.

Who am I supposed to be today?

And maybe the answer isn’t one or the other.

Maybe it’s both.

Messily.

Imperfectly.

In a way that shifts and adapts and occasionally contradicts itself.

Because that’s what real stories do.

They don’t resolve neatly.

They evolve.

The Final Thought

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, not as a definitive answer, but as a working theory, it’s this:

You’re allowed to care deeply about more than one thing.

You’re allowed to want stability and meaning.

You’re allowed to wrestle with this.

And you’re allowed to change your mind.

The dilemma doesn’t make you broken.

It makes you aware.

And perhaps that awareness, that constant questioning, that refusal to settle for easy answers, is exactly what makes you both a better artist…

…and a better dad.

Because in the end, maybe the goal isn’t to solve the dilemma.

Maybe it’s to live a life where both sides of you, the performer and the provider, get a seat at the table.

Even if, some mornings, one of them is still arguing about cereal.