To the girl raising her father

It still feels like yesterday.

It was a March evening in 2017. I stood outside the labour room -- anxious, restless, and counting the seconds.

Amid the noise of relatives and attendants, time seemed to crawl. My wife had been taken in around 2:30pm for a C-section, and by 5:00pm, there was still no news.

It was our second child, and we hadn't asked whether it would be a boy or a girl. Quietly, we wished for a girl. Around 5:15pm, the doctor came out.

As I rushed towards her, she smiled and said, "It's a girl."

When I walked in and held that baby for the first time, the rest of the world stood still. The hospital room, the chatter outside, even my own thoughts blurred into the background.

There she was -- tiny, fragile, yet powerful enough to rearrange the very core of who I was.

Something inside me shifted. It wasn't loud or dramatic, but a quiet realisation that life would never be the same.

Her arrival completed our family in every sense. We already had a son, five years older, and her birth brought a balance we didn't know we were missing.

Our home soon filled with new sounds -- softer, sweeter, yet commanding in their own way. Her presence coloured our world, transforming me in ways I had not imagined.

The way she stretches a word, asks a question, or mimics an adult's tone has an inexplicable charm. Her laughter, her curiosity, her wild colour choices, her drawings filled with blooming flowers, smiling suns, and dancing children bring me a joy I had long forgotten.

I find myself enchanted by the way she sees beauty in raindrops, in butterflies, in her mother's sari. The way she speaks with unfiltered honesty softens my own tone.

Raising my daughter has reshaped my understanding of what it means to be a man. I once believed manhood was about being strong and stoic.

But in her little face, I found a reason to be patient, caring, kind. Her tears can undo my toughest day. Through her, I learned that real strength lies in expressing emotion -- not in hiding it. It is not dominance, but empathy and respect.

I began to see how deeply words and gestures matter as she watches everything I do. I know she will use me, consciously or not, to understand men and measure the world around her. That thought makes me strive to be a better version of myself -- one she can trust and be proud of.

Raising a girl also brings a sense of vulnerability only parents understand. I worry about her safety -- the streets she will walk, the systems she will face, the biases she may encounter. Will her voice be heard? Will her worth be seen?

These questions come not from fear alone, but from reality.

As a journalist, I have covered women's struggles and triumphs -- from the fight for education and safety to equality at work. I have seen how opportunities shrink, how voices are dismissed, how security is never guaranteed.

But being a father to a daughter gives those stories new meaning. They are no longer distant reports; they are personal.

The International Day of the Girl Child reminds us that investing in girls -- in their education, rights, and opportunities -- is not just a moral duty but a collective necessity.

For me, it is also a moment of reflection. I see in my daughter the potential that too often goes unrealised. I think of the barriers -- early marriage, discrimination, neglect, violence -- and feel the urgency to do better, as a father and as a citizen.

When I watch her sleep, her hair fanned across the pillow and her small hand tucked beneath her cheek, I often think about the future she will step into -- a future I cannot control, but one I can help shape.

I want her to grow up believing her dreams are valid, her voice matters, and her worth is beyond measure.

In raising her, I am learning to raise myself -- as a father, as a man, and perhaps, as a better human being.