With Pride parade season around the corner, my social feeds are filling up again—photos of chiseled abs, cocktails in hand, selfies bathed in glitter filters. Flights booked, parties planned, dates lined up. I know the scene. I lived it. I traveled, I partied, I loved hard—and for a time, that life fit me.
But eventually, I wanted something else. Something deeper. I chose to love differently. To build a home. To become a father—all by my lonesome.
I’ve always known I wanted to be a dad. I was in a long-term relationship, but my partner didn’t want kids. That difference, more than anything, was our swansong. I tried co-parenting with a friend, but it didn’t feel right. I realized I didn’t just want to be a father—I wanted to raise my children my way, make the big decisions, shape the future they’d grow into.
So, at 45, I started the surrogacy process—solo. I looked into my options, did the research, and chose Thailand. It was a logistical nightmare. Expensive, distant, complicated. I sold my apartment in Tel Aviv and moved into a rental. Every dollar I had went toward one goal: becoming a father.
There were moments when I nearly gave up. The paperwork, the costs, the doubt—it all weighed heavy. But something inside me kept pushing forward. There were no role models, no guides. Just me, a dream, and the belief that I was worthy of it.
And then, it happened. I became a father.
Parenthood came like a storm—emotional, consuming, beautiful. There were forms, pediatric appointments, bottles, sleepless nights, and learning everything on the fly. Today, I’m a father to two amazing kids, ages 10 and 7—two whole worlds orbiting around me.
I did what many do as a couple, with shared finances and built-in backup. I did it alone. Not because I’m superhuman, but because I believed in the life I wanted—and refused to wait for permission.
People often ask: “Don’t you miss your old life? The parties, the freedom?” And honestly? No. Because this life—my life now—is full. It’s messy, loud, exhausting, and filled with more meaning than any all-nighter could offer. Yes, there are hard days. Moments of doubt. Of loneliness. But then there’s laughter at dinner, a hug before bedtime, little eyes looking at me like I’m their whole world.
That’s the real party. And I’m exactly where I want to be.
Still, one thing grates on me: the patronizing praise. The two words I’ve heard more than any others since becoming a dad—“Kol hakavod” (Hebrew for “Way to go”).
“Way to go for raising them alone.”
“Way to go for managing everything.”
“Way to go for making dinner.”
“Way to go for smiling.”
I remember a Friday afternoon at the supermarket. One kid in the cart, the other running circles around the aisles, me trying to remember what I forgot because I left the damn list at home. A woman smiles, touches my son (why do people always do that?) and says, “Wow, two kids all by yourself? Way to go!”
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled and said, “Yes, yes. A modern miracle. A man in a supermarket with kids who hasn’t exploded. If only the paparazzi were here.”
She laughed, kind of awkwardly. But I meant it.
Because when a mom does the same thing, no one bats an eye. No one claps for her. No one says, “Wow, how do you manage?” When a neighbor hints that my daughter’s cough might need “a mother’s attention,” that says everything. When someone insists I must have regular help—because how else could a man handle it alone—that says everything. When a mom at the playground asks how I managed to braid my daughter’s hair, like I’d just split an atom—that says everything.
So no—I don’t need your compliments. I need you to stop being surprised. A father, even a single one, is a full parent. This isn’t heroic. It’s not rare. It’s not inspirational. It’s just parenting.
If you insist on handing out praise, save it for the right things: that my kids are kind, that my son knows right from wrong, that my daughter just won a school sports award. That our home is filled with love, discipline, warmth, and security.
Not because I’m a man doing it alone—but because I’m their dad. That's more than enough.
