It’s my birthday today, and I hope you’ll indulge me in a few reflections. The past six months have been particularly challenging, marked by a (still unfolding) situation of employment instability.

What would have been an understandably difficult situation for all, got even worse because of the kids—both in terms of my potentially compromised ability to meet their needs, but also because I had to hide the whole affair from them.

Some context: I work in the humanitarian sector, which has been terribly affected by the decrees of the US administration to initially freeze and then decrease aid funding. The sector has also been affected by the decision of key country-donors to divert funding from aid to defence. As a result, the organization I work for had to lay off some 30% of its workforce.

It is for the first time in years that I found myself facing the prospect of unemployment. My whole being was shaken. Not only because what I do defines me, not even because this is the only place of employment I ever knew outside of the university; but mostly, because, now, there are living, human beings, who depend on me for their survival, economic and otherwise.

The mere thought of finding myself out of work a year before I turn 40 while having two small kids in the house immediately raises my heart rate. How will I provide for them without an adequate income? And even if I find a decent job, how am I to avoid depression if I am forced to spend eight, nine, ten hours a day doing something that I don’t particularly like or that does not match my beliefs? Yes, any type of work is still work, but what I do gives meaning to my life. (Saying that work gives meaning to my life is admittedly sad; nevertheless, it does not make it any less true.)

And then I was seized by the mundane; by all the practical considerations: what if I cannot afford their extracurricular activities, what if I cannot afford the little one’s kindergarten, their doctor? I don’t mind compromising my standards. I’ve lived with less and I was happy. After all, most of my pleasures—running, books, drinking lager—don’t require a fat bank account. But I certainly wouldn’t want to find myself in a position where I would not be able to afford what I consider to be basic services for the kids, such as, for instance, an orthodontist.

As these thoughts consumed me, I also started hating myself, thinking that I am just oozing privilege. That’s mostly right—this is a very privileged position to be in, and acknowledging it does not make it any better. I am healthy(-ish), have three advanced degrees from good universities, and a decade’s worth of experience in an international organization in increasingly senior positions. Things could be much worse for me. I should be fine. The kids should also be fine.

While I was trying to manage the stress, balancing self-loathing with self-pity, both fuelled by fear and stress, I was also well-aware that the overall humanitarian sector is in a very bad shape and, realistically, things would end up being difficult for me and the family, at least for the interim.

Kids are perceptive. They can sense when something is off. They also listen even when they seemingly do not pay attention. While I realized that Johnny, my oldest—a lovely boy of almost 8 years of age—was picking up on the negative vibes, I nevertheless knew that he was too young to discuss the situation with him. Especially considering that I am not impacted (yet). Some of you might disagree, believing that, with the appropriate language, everything could be discussed with children. While I can understand and even sympathise with this position, we all have our baggage, and mine makes me think that children should be, as much as possible, shielded from adult worries, including anything money-related. Such concerns can potentially rob children of their childhoods.

My panic lasted for weeks and the situation at work—ranging from depressing to full-on toxic—only made things worse. I nevertheless tried to behave myself at home, and discuss the matter only when the kids were not in the vicinity. I also resorted to the refuge of their hugs, which lasted a few seconds more than usual and increased in frequency. My need for comforting words from Sunshine also increased. Close friends helped substantially, as they supported me in rationalising the whole thing and understanding that my experience and background might also be relevant to the private sector. As it often happens during difficult periods, some friendships didn’t hold up, with certain friends dismissing my anxiety as unfounded, which at the time, was not supported by evidence.

The situation is a bit better now, but is not stable. It’s not likely to stabilize for a while. But I decided to control the only element that I can, which is how I react to the instability and negativity around me. It’s been a few weeks now that I am feeling better, which is not to say that the underlying depression vanished: I still want to be alone, I read less, I engage in mindless evening scrolling and so on. My solace, and what keeps the negative thoughts manageable, is spending uncomplicated time with Sunshine and the kids.

My decision to adopt a more chill attitude did not emerge out of thin air. It only became possible after I rationalized this highly upsetting situation, realizing that the threat to one’s livelihood can only be described in one way: as an act of violence. The fact that it is experienced by so many people every single day does not make it any less violent.

Once I understood that this is a form of violence, then my instinct reaction was to take shield, to protect myself—with emotional distance, a lot of cynicism, and with resorting to the love of my family. At the same time, Sunshine and I adopted a very pragmatic approach to the situation, engaging in rigorous calculations to visualize how the first day, weeks or even months of unemployment would look like. This helped, as it enabled us to plan a bit; and having even a semblance of a plan helped me to restore some sense of control.

As I write this, I turn 39. I assure you, I have no idea how on earth this happened. I feel the same idiot as 25 years ago. The only difference is that my body hurts more, I’m generally tired, I have less patience and I feel sadder, while at the same time Ι feel somewhat fulfilled (paradoxical, but such is life). Also, rather than becoming more conservative with age, I’m becoming more politically radical, which is interesting to experience and fun for my friends to witness.

The instability shook me to my core, and made me question my choices. For I had initially chosen this career path because academia was too unstable. Ironic, isn’t it? And then I fully embraced it because what we do–helping people at their most vulnerable–is important and adds value to the world. But for how long? Not to mention that I’m also approaching middle age, which makes this questioning of my life choices even more acute.

Sidenote to give evidence to the claim that I am approaching middle age. Last Saturday, I woke up around 4am in order to go for a bicycle ride before the weather got too hot, also wanting to be back on time to spend the day with the family. While in bed, I picked up my phone in order to check for overnight emails and messages. Everything was fuzzy, I couldn’t see a thing! I wondered what on earth was going on, thinking that I was having a stroke. Half awake, and as panic started to build, I moved the phone a couple of inches further away from my face, and, voila, everything was crisp again. I suppose these are early signs of presbyopia/long-sightedness. If that’s not a sign of middle age, I don’t know what is.

As much as I question my life-choices, I am most resolute about the decision to have kids, even if it was not really a “choice” or a “decision” I consciously made–these things are decided by Sunshine–but one which I would never take back. I don’t go as much as to say that the kids give meaning to my life. That would mean that my life without the kids would be devoid of meaning, which is not true. Nevertheless, the kids have given me perspective and purpose. They made me realise that the world does not revolve around me, and they enabled me to unlock reserves of care and love I never knew I had in me. Wanting to also be present for them made me more efficient in other domains of my life, including at work.

Of course, kids are also great stressors, both in relation to everyday life (the Cypriot government assumes that everyone gets off work at 1pm), but also in relation to the important bits, including the ability to provide for them. Having grown up in middle-class Cyprus adds to the mix, seeing as it is becoming increasingly difficult to provide a lifestyle similar to the one offered to us by our parents.

As I am turning 39 and complain about the instability that I am experiencing, I also think of all those persons, including fathers with children like my own, who have been unfortunate enough to be born a few hundred kilometers away from Nicosia where I live, and who are now facing the ills of war and displacement. People like me and my loved ones who are forced to abandon their houses and seek refuge in nearby countries. So many of these people—humans, like us!—will receive lesser assistance, if at all. That’s devastating. Children without meals, families without shelter, vulnerable individuals remaining unidentified and without the special support they need; an utterly avoidable tragedy; a product of policy whose negative impact is measured in human lives.

I’m always amazed by the capacity of people to disassociate from a bad situation. Only then can they accept something as cruel with such passivity; as if it’s a fact of life. For if we did not collectively disassociate, we would never tolerate the abandonment of our shared humanity, we would never accept aid cuts that render so many hundreds of thousands of people at increased risk of homelessness, destitution, exploitation, and even death. We would somehow react. Rather, we sit back while we witness the armament of the far-right in Europe which is gradually gaining ground, increasing defence spending at the expense of humanitarian aid.

It’s also not lost on me that we may be already living through the third world war, which may have started back in 2022. If that’s the case, the worst is yet to come.

I’m trying to shield myself from all the violence as much as possible. Other than taking shelter in the love of my family, I also try to move as much as possible: running, cycling, swimming. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. During my solitary training sessions, I become one with the land. I run in the trails of Troodos mountain, on the sharp rocks, and think of the hubris of claiming that these rocks belong to us. We claim that we have ownership of the rocks that have been here aeons before us and which shall remain for generations after we are gone. Hubris! And as I experience and embody this connection with the land, I also reaffirm my attachment to this place. I experience Cypriotness from a different angle. To be Cypriot is to have an attachment to these rocks. Cypriotness is the plurality of those who felt attachment to these rocks. What defines me, what defines us, what defines to be Cypriot, is the multiplicity of those who interacted with the land of the country. For we belong to the land, not the other way around. And to claim that Cyprus belongs to one or the other is simple arrogance; the self-deceit of mortals who in vain try to overcome their mortality by claiming what cannot be owned.

I will have a happy birthday today. There’s going to be cake, candles and the children. They will sing happy birthday to me in both English and Greek, and we’ll exchange kisses and take photographs. And I won’t be able to blow my candles myself and I will need their help, and then we will all make a secret wish. It’ll be the same wish for the eighth consecutive year.

This is part of a series of entries titled Fatherhood Diaries where I record thoughts on life as a new dad. Click here for all the Fatherhood Diaries.