It wasn’t always like this. I was young, married, and living life, having fun with my partner. Then came the three kids, and everything changed. Life shifted, priorities shifted, and slowly, so did we. We grew apart. Before I knew it, I was divorced, financially constrained, and navigating the world as a single dad.
I was incredibly fortunate to gain primary custody of my children. If you’d asked me when this journey began, four years ago, I would have said, “It’ll be easy. Piece of cake.” But looking back, I had no idea what I was stepping into. I thought I had it all figured out—I was a perfect parent in my own mind—but I quickly realized I would make mistakes, whether it was in fatherhood, dating, or just trying to survive mentally and emotionally.
Before my marriage, I didn’t date much, so I had very little experience with the dating world. I remember a coworker encouraging me to try dating apps to see what was out there. Funny story: I was swiping right on everyone and finally matched with someone who, honestly, wasn’t my type. She wanted to meet for coffee and thought I was cute. I had no idea how dating worked in this new age, so I felt obligated to meet her. My coworker eventually explained that I didn’t owe anyone a meeting—that it was okay to politely say no.
When I finally started dating, I made sure my kids never knew. I was able to keep my fatherhood life and my personal life separate. My good friend Brent jokingly called me “Darkwing” (like the Disney cartoon) because during the day, I was this superhero dad, managing it all, and at night, if I arranged a babysitter, I was off fighting crime—going to comedy shows, concerts, dates, and bars. On these dates, I noticed something beautiful: women genuinely appreciated that I was a single dad who spent most of his time with his kids. That reality still feels amazing—especially as an African American father with primary custody—because it’s not common.
Yet, as much as I enjoyed dating, reality hit hard. Unlike most men, I couldn’t drop everything and see someone whenever I wanted. I had to find and pay for a babysitter. And more importantly, I had to protect my kids from forming attachments to anyone whose intentions weren’t genuine. Many romantic connections fizzled because I refused to introduce my children to someone I wasn’t sure about. For me, they always came first.
From 2017, when my divorce finalized, through 2019, life was unstable. The kids lived between five different homes and attended three different schools. They constantly said goodbye to friends. In my mind, the last thing they needed was to bond with someone who might not be there in the long run. So, every chance I had, I took them out of the house—beaches, trampoline parks, amusement parks, movies—anywhere to distract them from the divorce and the fact it was just the four of us at home. Those moments were not just fun; they gave us all a mental break. Once we returned home, it was time to cook, bathe, comb hair, and tackle the chaos of daily life. I was mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. I prayed for stability, living paycheck to paycheck, still digging out of the financial hole the divorce left behind.
Stability finally came when my job moved us to Okinawa, Japan. We arrived excited to explore the island and travel across Asia. But after a few months, life took an unexpected turn. People worldwide started getting sick. Soon, Covid-19 reached our island. Suddenly, we were forced to stop, reflect, and process emotions we hadn’t fully dealt with before.
Here I was: a single dad managing a work center, striving to perform at an elite level, raising three kids, attempting to date, and now expected to become a teacher, too. My older children, Jaliyah, 11, and Jakari, 9, resisted online homework. I quickly realized I didn’t know the methods taught now—math with blocks and repetitive addition instead of simple memorization. Frustration ran high—for me and for them. Google became my lifeline.
But with the kids home all day, we finally had time to connect, to truly talk. I realized I hadn’t considered how much the divorce affected them emotionally. I had processed my pain through counseling and support, but who had my kids? Who was helping them navigate their feelings? They hadn’t been given that outlet, and I hadn’t thought to create one.
One night, while watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians, I noticed the family doing a simple but profound exercise: sharing the “peaks and pits” of their day at dinner. It struck me. I implemented this for us. These conversations gave each of us a moment to speak and be heard. It was in these moments that I learned difficult truths: I wasn’t perfect; my son felt alone at times; my daughter wore my sweaters for comfort at school; and my oldest daughter carried anxiety about change.
Divorce, I realized, isn’t just an adult experience—it reshapes children’s lives, too. They often shield their parents from the pain, just as I had tried to protect them. Recognizing this, I sought help from a psychologist. Initially, it was nerve-wracking—pouring your life out to a stranger is never easy—but it became invaluable. Talking to someone neutral helped me reflect, grow, and guide my family through our challenges. The kids and I learned to express ourselves fully, and slowly, we became closer than ever.
Through this process, I discovered so much about each of them. Jakobe, 6, taught me every Pokémon ever made. He watches early ’90s Power Rangers, just like I did, and we debate who’s the better ranger. Jakari, my middle child, is a talented artist and aspiring contortionist. She draws intricate anime characters while following YouTube sensations, and I watch in awe. My oldest, Jaliyah, isn’t a little girl anymore—she’s a pre-teen with her own style, opinions, and sometimes, crushes. I’ve learned communication is everything, especially when it’s just the two of us in the household.
A lot has changed. The marriage didn’t work—that’s okay. I’m a single dad—that’s okay too. I don’t get it right every day, and that’s okay. I’ve learned to cherish the little moments: waking up tangled with blankets and hair in my face, morning WWE wrestling matches in the living room, or spontaneous beach adventures. They are growing up fast, and these moments won’t last forever. College, friends, independence—they’re coming.
Our family may look different, but the most important thing is that we’re together. Home isn’t a house; it’s us, wherever we are. And despite everything, I wouldn’t trade this journey, this chaos, or these kids for anything in the world.
