I didn’t grow up around kids. Never changed a diaper. Never built a Lego tower. Never had a clue how to “connect” with children — until I had one of my own in my 50s.

Now I’m 57, and my son Rhett is seven. That math alone makes me the oldest dad at most birthday parties, school pickups, and playgrounds. And let me tell you — trying to relate to a kid through Roblox and TikTok when you grew up on Evel Knievel and three TV channels? That’s not just a generation gap. That’s a canyon.

Before fatherhood, I spent decades as a TV news anchor — bouncing from small-town stations to big markets, living on adrenaline and story deadlines.  I was shot at multiple times, interviewed Governors, Presidents and Celebrities. I knew how to report the news.  I didn’t know how to build a train set or sit still for a kids tea party.

And just when I thought I was starting to figure it out, my body started breaking down. A torn bicep. Four teeth knocked out, neuro-spinal surgery and the list goes on. At one point, I flatlined from a bleeding ulcer brought on by pain meds.

All of it — the late nights, the surgeries, the tech I couldn’t keep up with — made me question if I was cut out for this kind of fatherhood. Not because I didn’t love my son. But because I was scared I’d run out of time to get it right.

That fear? It’s what built this whole thing.

Today, I help other late-stage dads — men who feel invisible in a sea of younger parents, men who are still trying to prove they belong in a world that seems to have moved on without them. I don’t have a formula or a perfect plan. What I have is real experience, some scars, and a belief that it’s never too late to matter — especially to your kid.

If you’re here because you’re tired of feeling like you’re behind, like you’re the only one struggling, like the window’s closing on your chance to be a great father — you’re in the right place.

Let’s figure it out together.