Our Daughter’s Diagnosis — A Dad’s Perspective
- Ashley
- Oct 19
- 6 min read
Updated: Nov 10
When Words Don’t Come Easily
I’ve wanted to write this for a long time. But as any parent knows, finding the time and more importantly, the mental space to unpack everything life throws at you can feel impossible.
And as a man, writing about emotions — about fear, helplessness, love, and guilt — doesn’t come naturally. We're not raised to talk about what’s going on inside. We’re raised to handle it. To fix things, hold it together, and not let anyone see the cracks.
But when your child is diagnosed with a life-altering condition, those cracks start to show — whether you want them to or not.
This is my story, not just about our daughter’s diagnosis, but about what it means to be a dad trying to stay strong while quietly falling apart.
Pregnancy in a Pandemic
Penelope — our Penny — was born on 11th November 2020, right in the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic. It was a time when the whole world was locked away, and even pregnancy — something so personal and human — was reduced to isolation and fear.
Lucy had to attend scans on her own. I’ll never forget the phone call when she rang me in tears after one of them. The doctors were worried — Penny wasn’t growing properly. And I wasn’t allowed to be there.
That helplessness… that’s a feeling I can’t describe properly. You want to protect the person you love, to take their fear away, but you’re left outside, powerless. Those two weeks waiting for the next scan were some of the longest of our lives. When they confirmed Penny had stopped growing, and that Lucy would need to be induced early, it was terrifying — but we just had to get on with it.
The Day Penny Arrived
We chose Walsall Manor Hospital because it was one of the few still allowing partners in during labour. Looking back now, I can’t express how grateful I am for that.
Penny’s birth was like nothing I’d ever seen. She was born still in her sac — perfectly still, surrounded by fluid, almost peaceful. The midwife froze in shock before carefully bursting the sac and handing her to Lucy.
Penny was tiny — 5lb 1oz — but she was ours. She didn’t cry, just looked around with these quiet, alert eyes. From that moment, I loved her with everything I had.
We stayed up most of that first night together, just me holding her while Lucy slept. I didn’t know it then, but that calm night would be the last one for a long while.
The Hardest Nights of Our Lives
Bringing Penny home should have been the start of normal life. But like everything in 2020, nothing was normal. We had a toddler, Daisy, just two years old, and a new-born who wouldn’t stop crying.
We worked in shifts — Lucy breastfeeding while I stayed up walking Penny around the house for hours. Night after night. I remember one Christmas Eve where I didn’t sleep at all. Penny screamed the entire night, and I felt like I was failing everyone — her, Lucy, and Daisy.
At one point, exhausted and broken, I told a friend, “I love her, but I don’t like her right now." That's not something I’m proud of. But it was honest. Sleep deprivation and helplessness do strange things to your head. You love this tiny person more than life itself, but you feel trapped by the constant noise and fear that something is wrong.
And deep down, I think I knew something was wrong.
The Signs We Couldn’t Ignore
Penny wasn’t meeting milestones. She couldn’t sit up straight, always slumped to one side, and used only her left hand for everything. She had a little squint, coughed and choked when we tried to wean her, and eventually started to crawl — but in her own way, dragging herself forward with one leg.
People noticed. Some gently hinted that things didn’t look right. Others avoided saying anything. And while I appreciated their care, I wish more people had been honest.
We took her to the GP, but our concerns were brushed off. We were told she’d “catch up.” But Lucy and I knew — this wasn’t about catching up. This was something bigger.
So we went private.
The Day Everything Changed
We saw a specialist in Edgbaston. She listened carefully and did a thorough exam. When she said it wasn’t a tumour, I felt immediate relief. But then she looked at us softly and said,
“Your daughter has Cerebral Palsy.”
Those words changed everything — but in the strangest way, I didn’t feel what I expected. No breakdown. No tears. Just silence.
Because men often process pain by doing. I instantly moved to, Right, what do we do now? Lucy wanted to talk, cry, understand. I wanted to fix it.
That’s where the distance between us began — not because we didn’t love each other, but because we were grieving differently.
The Sentence That Started a Thousand Arguments
In the months after Penny’s diagnosis, Lucy and I had a lot of disagreements. Not loud fights — just misfires in communication.
At one point, I said something that stayed with us both:
“There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s fine.”
Lucy heard denial. She thought I couldn’t accept our daughter’s condition. But to me, those words meant something completely different.
I wasn’t denying her diagnosis — I was rejecting the idea that it defined her. In my mind, saying “she’s fine” wasn’t about ignorance, it was about faith. She might have cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and autism, but she’s still my daughter — capable, strong, and extraordinary.
What I meant was: She will live her life on her terms. She will be okay.
Why Men Go Quiet
When you read stories like this, people often talk about how fathers “shut down” or “aren’t there emotionally.” But here’s the truth: we’re not absent — we’re scared. We’re angry at ourselves for not being able to fix it.
We want to be strong, to protect our families, and when we can’t, it eats at us. Talking about feelings feels like losing control, and control is the one thing we cling to when life feels unpredictable.
When Lucy cried, I didn’t know how to comfort her without breaking myself. I thought being the steady one was what she needed. But in trying to stay strong, I made her feel alone.
Men don’t avoid emotions because we don’t have them — we avoid them because once they surface, we don’t know how to stop them.
Different Languages of Grief
I’ve come to understand that men and women often grieve the same loss in completely different languages.
Lucy processes pain by talking it through — she finds healing in words and connection. I process it by action — by researching, building, fixing, protecting.
Neither of us was wrong. But without understanding those differences, we started working against each other instead of together.
Even now, I still struggle to open up. It’s not because I don’t trust her — she’s my best friend — it’s because I don’t want to add to her weight. That’s the cruel irony: I stay quiet to protect her, even though it sometimes makes her feel more alone.
To Other Dads: You’re Not Broken
If you’re reading this and you’ve been where I am, know this — it’s okay to feel lost. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to be the rock all the time.
Your silence doesn’t make you weak — but learning to share it will make you stronger.
And to the mums reading this: when he goes quiet, it’s not always distance. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s love expressed in the only way he knows how — by standing still and holding everything up so you don’t have to.
For Penny, and For Every Child Like Her
I know now that Penny doesn’t need me to fix her. She just needs me to see her, to believe in her, and to fight beside her.
Yes, she has challenges — but she’s not defined by them. She’s bright, strong-willed, funny, and full of life. And I’ll keep saying it — there’s nothing wrong with her.
Because in her own way, she’s shown me that strength doesn’t mean silence — it means showing up, every single day, even when the words don’t come.
About the Author
Written by a dad of three, including Penelope — a bright, resilient little girl with cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and autism. My Penelope was created to help parents track, understand, and advocate for their children with additional needs.
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