You know that feeling when you're just... *there*? Like, really present. Had it tonight. Kid was finally asleep after an hour of fussing. Little warm weight on my chest, tiny hand clamped onto my finger. The whole cliché, right? Exhausted but wired, just staring at her face in the dim light from the hallway. Thinking about how my parents would just... do it. No complaints. No 'feelings.' Just get on with it, provide. That's the script. Then it hits you. Not like a thought, more like a physical jolt. A sudden, visceral comprehension of mortality. My mortality. I'm 32. She's three weeks. In another 32 years, she'll be my age now. Will I even be around? My grandfather had his first heart attack at 50. My dad's blood pressure is perpetually 'borderline hypertension.' The genetic predisposition is... significant. The statistical probability, if you look at the actuarial tables, isn't exactly in my favor for seeing her 30th birthday, let alone her 60th. It's not even a fear of dying, not exactly. More like a profound sense of *loss*. Like I'm preemptively grieving a future I haven't even had yet. A future where I'm there, where I get to see it all. The big milestones, sure, but also the mundane stuff. Her terrible teenage phases, the awkward first dates, the career pivots, maybe even her own kids. All of it. And suddenly, holding her, I just... couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight, like a physical constriction. A panic attack, probably. Textbook somatic symptoms. And then, because the human brain is a magnificent, cruel joke, the dark humor kicks in. I’m thinking, "Oh, so *this* is what they meant about parental anxiety." My parents would probably tell me to 'stop being so dramatic.' My mother would prescribe a strong tea and say I need to 'eat more.' My father would just grunt and tell me to get some sleep. The irony is not lost on me. I’m sitting here, practically hyperventilating over a hypothetical future, while my daughter just snores contentedly, completely oblivious to my existential dread. It's just... exhausting. This constant internal monologue between the person I am and the person I'm 'supposed' to be. The quiet, stoic provider vs. the guy who's suddenly terrified of a statistical probability. It feels like a cognitive dissonance I can't resolve. She's still asleep, my hand still trapped. I can’t move. I just keep staring at her, this tiny human, and the enormity of the unknown future. It's a lot. A LOT. And there's no off switch.