he arrival of a first child is an experience that transcends words. There is a whirlwind of emotions where intense love, fear, hope and wonder intertwine. In my case, the day my son was born, the world shifted.

There is a singular moment when you hold your child for the first time. The vastness of the universe collapses into that tiny, swaddled figure. In those moments, all the dreams and aspirations you never knew you harboured come flooding in—hopes for a future you can help shape, the desire to share the things that brought you joy in your own childhood and a deep-seated yearning to pass on the values and stories that moulded you into who you are.

The dawn of my paternal Odyssey rekindled memories of my own childhood, particularly the iconic figures who had ignited my young mind with dreams of heroism and virtue. As a child, I was captivated by the stories of the Man of Steel. I spent countless afternoons curled up with comic books, immersing myself in the adventures of a hero who was invincible yet deeply human in his emotions and struggles. Superman was more than just a fictional character; he was a symbol of hope, strength and moral clarity, representing the idea that no matter the odds, there was always a way to rise above adversity and do what was right. I often imagined soaring through the skies, saving the world, a red cape billowing behind me.

With the arrival of my firstborn, I eagerly anticipated the day I could share this cherished part of my childhood with him. I imagined us sitting together, leafing through the same well-worn pages, watching his eyes light up as mine once did with the tales of Superman’s heroic deeds. It was more than just wanting him to like a particular superhero—it was to be a connection across generations, a common language of admiration for a character who stood for good.

But as any parent quickly learns, children come into this world with their own minds, preferences and journeys to embark upon. My son, it turned out, was not captivated by the bright colours of Superman’s costume or the tales of Krypton. Instead, he was drawn to the shadows, the mystery and the complexity of another hero. “Batman, Daddy! I want Batman!” His eyes would light up at the sight of the Dark Knight’s silhouette. Each trip to the toy store became a gentle tug-of-war between my Superman nostalgia and his Batman obsession. I’d hopefully point out the iconic red-and-yellow ‘S’ emblem, only to be met with unwavering devotion to the Bat-signal.

At first, I tried to nudge him gently towards Superman. I bought him Superman toys, played Superman cartoons and even regaled him with stories of Clark Kent’s dual identity. But the Caped Crusader, with his gadgets and gritty determination, had captured my son’s imagination in a way that Superman never did. It was Batman he wanted to dress up as, Batman that he insisted on drawing and colouring. Batman was the hero of his make-believe adventures.

Initially, I felt a bit disappointed—not because he loved Batman, who is, after all, an extraordinary character in his own right, but because my flesh and blood wasn’t drawn to something I deeply cherished. Eventually there came the humbling realisation that my son was not a blank canvas on which I could paint my dreams and desires. Rather, I had an obligation to allow him the freedom to paint his own identity. You bring a child into the world with hopes and dreams, some of which are projections of your experience, but each child is a unique individual with their own heroes to discover and their own destinies to attain.

As I nostalgically look at my son’s collection of Batman toys, I no longer feel the twinge of disappointment I once did. Instead, I feel pride. His love for Batman has become a part of who he is, just as my love for Superman is a part of who I am. And in that, I see the real beauty of parenthood—not in creating a mirror image of myself but in nurturing and supporting a child as they become the person they were always meant to be.

Parenthood is a journey of constant revelation, where dreams and aspirations we initially hold for our children gradually evolve into a deeper understanding of what it truly means to be a parent. Along this ever-evolving path, we come to realise that our children teach us as much as we teach them; sometimes even more.

You bring a child into the world with hopes and dreams, some of which are projections of your experience, but each child is a unique individual. They have their own heroes to discover and their own destinies to attain.

The lessons and realisations unfold in the quiet, everyday moments that seem ordinary but carry profound significance. One such moment came for me during a summer many years ago, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It was during such tranquil evenings that my son and I would retreat into the world of computer screens, engaging in fierce battles of wit and strategy in a game that was extremely popular at the time: Command and Conquer: Generals. To us, it was more than just a game; it was a shared experience, a weekly ritual that deepened the bond between father and son.

During those evenings, we faced off against each other in the game, our PCs networked to create an arena where we tested our strategic skills. I remember our first matches vividly. My son, eager and determined, would challenge me with the unbridled enthusiasm that only youth possess. Despite his best efforts, I repeatedly emerged victorious, my experience and tactical advantage proving too much for his developing strategies. Only an eight-year-old could possess the naïve courage to believe he could outsmart his father in such a game. Every time, before we began, he would make me promise not to fake defeat, his serious expression leaving no room for negotiation. It was this combination of innocence and bravery that made those matches so special, as he wholeheartedly believed in his ability to win despite the odds.

There was one particular match that would forever alter our dynamic, transforming our gaming sessions from a simple pastime into a profound metaphor for life and growth. In this memorable game, I had constructed a sprawling base, complete with powerful defences and an army poised to crush any resistance. My son, on the other hand, was down to a single soldier—his last hope against the overwhelming odds stacked against him.

It seemed inevitable that I would claim another victory. Yet my son, with a glint of determination in his eyes, chose to play the game in a way I had not anticipated. Instead of succumbing to despair, he crafted a plan of audacious ingenuity. He directed his lone soldier to infiltrate my base, expertly avoiding detection and engaging in a campaign of precise destruction.

His first target was my radar, an essential component of my strategic advantage. With my vision of the battlefield severed, I was plunged into uncertainty, unable to predict his movements or anticipate his next strike. One by one, he dismantled my structures, targeting first my resource-gathering dozers and command centre with surgical precision, leaving me unable to repair or rebuild. The irony of the situation was palpable: a single stealthy soldier dismantling an empire, defying the odds through sheer cunning and perseverance.

In those tense moments, I found myself cheering inwardly for his success. Each move he made, each structure he demolished, was a testament to his growth and ingenuity. I watched as my carefully constructed defences crumbled under his relentless assault. When his soldier finally delivered the coup de grâce, reducing my base to ruins, my screen lit up with the words “You have been defeated.” To my utter surprise, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. Sometimes, the greatest victories are not the ones where we win but those where we lose to ones we love.

I was struck by an epiphany. This must be what unconditional love feels like—the kind of love only a parent feels for their child, where the victories and joys of someone else are infinitely more fulfilling than one’s own. With this moment of clarity came a dual realisation: I understood not only the depth of my love for my son but also, for the first time, truly grasped the love my parents must have felt for me. This unselfish love, which I now experienced so deeply for my son, was merely a reflection of the very same love that had sheltered and nurtured me throughout my life.

How they must have silently rooted for my victories and rejoiced in my happiness, even if it came at the cost of their own. Every unspoken sacrifice, every word of encouragement and every moment of quiet support was infused with this profound, unwavering love. In that instant, I felt a deep connection across generations—a recognition that the love we pass down is not just a gift, but a legacy, one that continues to shape and define us long after we’ve left the nest.

As I reflect on the adventure I’ve shared with my firstborn, I realise that what matters most is not the traditions we hand down, but the new memories we build. Our bond is strengthened not by our similarities, but by our differences. The most precious gift we can offer our children is the unfettered freedom to bloom into their authentic selves, unencumbered by expectation. In return, they grace us with an incomparable gift—the ability to witness our world reborn, painted in vibrant hues of wonder and possibility through their untarnished gaze and forever changed by the alchemy of unconditional love.

The writer is an entrepreneur based in the United States and the United Kingdom. He tweets @viewpointsar and can be reached at: sar@aya.yale.edu