Functional, not fine(part 2)

 Doubt

There was a time when I came to work fully present. I felt good about myself, confident in my skills, and confident in the care I was providing. I knew my treatments, I knew my medications, and I trusted my decision-making. I’ve had some excellent calls over the years — the kind where you know you made a difference. The kind where everything lined up, and the care was spot-on.

Then, almost out of nowhere, that confidence disappeared.

I started doubting myself before, during, and after calls. That steady feeling I used to have — the one that let me walk into bad situations without hesitation — was gone. I didn’t suddenly forget how to do my job. The knowledge was still there. The experience was still there. What was missing was trust in myself.

I’ve always struggled with breathing problem calls. They’ve never been my comfort zone. But after a severe allergic reaction call, that discomfort turned into something else entirely. The call itself went as fast and as smoothly as it possibly could have. Everything that needed to be done was done. The outcome, however, wasn't good, well after my portion of the call had ended. That call still lives in my head. I’ve replayed it more times than I can count. I’ve been told repeatedly that there was nothing more I could have done, and I understand that logically. Emotionally, it doesn’t land. The doubt stuck. And it changed how I approach calls now.

Since then, similar calls have felt different. I’m extremely hyper-focused during them. Tunnel vision. Locked in on every parameter, every number, every detail. It’s not that I wasn’t focused before — I was —, but now it feels heavier. There’s no mental margin. No room to breathe.

Before the call, I’m anxious. During the call, I’m all business. After the call, I second-guess myself. That cycle didn’t exist for me years ago.

I’ve talked openly with my director about how much I’ve been struggling — the self-doubt, the depression, and the steps I’ve been trying to take to deal with it. I want to go back to the way I was. I really do. But no matter how much I try, I can’t seem to get there.

Maybe the most challenging part is realizing that knowing what to do doesn’t always bring confidence anymore. Experience doesn’t automatically quiet the doubt. And doing everything right doesn’t always protect you from questioning yourself afterward.

I’m still capable. I’m still showing up. But the certainty I once carried doesn’t come as easily as it used to. And I’m learning that losing confidence doesn’t mean you lost your ability — it just means something deeper shifted.

I didn’t lose my skills — I lost my certainty.

Identity

When I moved my family from Germany to Savannah, it was for one reason — to keep my family together. I wanted us to grow, to flourish, and to build a life that worked for all of us. I came ahead of the family, bought a house in a good school district, and got everything set up. Then I went back to Germany and brought everyone home with me.

Everything I did was for the family.

The house needed some work. Nothing earth-shattering, but enough that it slowly became too much for me to handle alone. I eventually hired someone to finish the repairs, which put us in a bad financial spot. My goal of keeping my wife home with the kids wasn’t working anymore. I helped her get a job at the airport, and we did what we could to make ends meet. During that time, the kids were my life.

Outside of work, everything revolved around them. I took them to sports, school functions, and church. I loved every minute of it. We didn’t have much extra money, but we had what we needed, and the kids were happy. I tried to find a side hustle that wouldn’t take me away from them any more than my regular job already did, but nothing ever worked out. Still, I had the kids and their activities, and that was enough for me.

Then I was served divorce papers.

I have never felt pain like I felt that day. I was a mess. I was lost. In an instant, the life I knew was gone. I went from being the dad who did everything to being someone on the outside. The people in the kids’ sports circles, their schools, and our church all thought I was a single dad — and then suddenly I wasn’t. Everyone knows how this usually goes.

I went from being a full-time dad to a part-time presence. From feeling like the center of a small universe to feeling like someone watching from a distance. I did what I could for the kids. I tried to give them what they wanted, but more often than not, I came up short. I tried to make every event I was told about, but working long hours and living far away made that harder than I want to admit.

Over time, the kids grew more distant. They built lives where they lived — lives I couldn’t compete with. At first, I was angry about it. Then I realized that anger wasn’t good for them or for me. Eventually, I stopped asking and focused on doing what I could, when I could.

The kids haven’t been to my house in close to fifteen years. That still makes me sad.

I’m not writing this to place blame or rewrite the past. I know I did the best I could with what I had at the time. But losing daily fatherhood changed me. It reshaped how I see myself, my role, and my place in the world. I didn’t stop being a dad — but I stopped knowing where I fit.

And that loss didn’t come with instructions for rebuilding.

I didn’t stop being a father — I stopped knowing where I belonged.