More Than a Vacation: How Seven Days at Sea Changed Me as a Dad

Over Christmas and New Year’s, my family and I took a seven-day cruise with Royal Caribbean. On paper, it was a holiday getaway. In reality, it became one of the most transformative experiences of my life not just as a parent, but as a dad.

One of the greatest blessings of this trip was the opportunity to travel during the holidays with family. Being able to share Christmas and New Year’s in the same place, at the same time, with people we love is something that is increasingly rare. Traveling alongside my brothers and sisters, their spouses, and our kids was honestly a dream come true. Watching cousins play together, sharing meals, laughter, late nights, and moments that felt both celebratory and deeply grounding, reminded me how special it is to experience life collectively. There was something incredibly meaningful about creating memories together during a season that is already filled with reflection, gratitude, and connection.

Parenting with a spinal cord injury carries challenges that are hard to fully explain unless you live them. My injury is a cervical-level spinal cord injury at the fifth vertebra (C5), which significantly impacts my upper-body strength, trunk control, hand function, and overall balance. At home, many of the day-to-day realities of raising a young child fall outside of my physical reach. I cannot pick my daughter up when she needs comfort. I cannot put her to bed. I cannot lift her from a car seat or physically guide her through certain tasks the way I want to. These limitations are not about desire or effort, but about neurological function and safety. Those moments, small as they may seem, add up. And because of that, much of the physical parenting responsibility naturally falls to my wife.

I find myself doing a lot of verbal parenting. Coaching. Encouraging. Explaining. Loving through words. That isn’t a bad thing, but it has left me searching for my stride. Searching for the feeling that I am not just present, not just supportive, but actively being a dad in the way I imagined long before I ever had children.

At home, there are moments where I wrestle with a quiet sense of helplessness within the routine of parenting alongside my wife. There are times I find myself wondering where I fit, especially when so much of the physical responsibility naturally falls on her shoulders. In those moments, it is easy to confuse limitation with absence, or usefulness with physical capability. I have had to learn, sometimes the hard way, that my role does not disappear simply because it looks different from what I once imagined.

What I am continuing to understand is that sometimes the most important way to fit in is through presence. Through listening without fixing. Through understanding without defensiveness. Through patience when the day has already taken more than it has given. Showing up emotionally, consistently, and calmly matters more than I often give myself credit for. Support does not always require action. Sometimes it requires steadiness. Sometimes it requires space. And sometimes it requires trusting that being fully present, even when I feel unsure of my place, is not only enough, but essential.

For me, there is a meaningful difference between being a parent and being a dad. Being a parent is responsibility. It is care, provision, protection, and consistency. It is showing up, making decisions, and ensuring your child is safe and supported. Being a dad, however, is relational. It is lived in the in-between moments. It is presence over instruction, connection over correction, and shared experience over explanation. A parent can guide from the sidelines. A dad steps into the moment.

To be clear, there is no negative connotation in being a parent versus being a dad or a mother. Each role carries its own value, and often a moment simply calls for one more than the other. For much of my journey, I had primarily experienced parenting in its truest sense. This trip gave me the rare opportunity to step more fully into what it feels like to be a dad, and that distinction mattered deeply to me.

Because of my cervical spinal cord injury, much of my role at home has naturally leaned toward parenting rather than fathering. I have learned how to lead with words, with intention, and with emotional availability. But I have also quietly grieved the loss of some of the physical expressions of fatherhood I once assumed would come naturally. The ability to scoop my child up, to move freely alongside her, to react quickly, to physically manage situations without hesitation. That gap mattered more to me than I often admitted, and it made the moments on this trip where I felt like a dad land with incredible weight and meaning.

One of the hardest realities for me has been knowing that I cannot leave the house alone with my own child. Because of my injury, the inability to corral a toddler, get her out of a car seat, or respond quickly in unpredictable environments is not just inconvenient; it is unsafe. That reality has been devastating at times. Those limitations quietly feed some of my deepest fears that maybe I wouldn’t be able to be the father I wanted to be after sustaining a spinal cord injury.

And then something changed.

On this cruise, within a confined, safe, and thoughtfully accessible environment, I experienced a version of fatherhood that I had never fully known before. For the first time, I felt like I could truly go with my daughter, Hayden, who is two and a half. Just her and me. No backup plan. No fear. No logistical gymnastics.

We explored together.

We rode elevators up and down like it was our own little world. I took her to the kids’ center on my own. I brought her to the movie theater. We went on dates just the two of us for pizza and ice cream, for breakfast, lunch, and even hot dogs. I took her to the arcade. We climbed walls. We rode the carousel. All of it. Just me and her.

For the first time, I wasn’t just parenting from the sidelines. I was protecting her, guiding her, sheltering her, and yes, even correcting her in moments where she was incredibly receptive. What surprised me most was the feedback she gave in return. The way she listened. The way she responded. The way she showed affection and trust. The way she stayed close.

Hayden and I developed our own little routine. Certain places we always went. Things we always did. Moments we looked forward to. My favorite memory of all was chasing each other down the long hallways of the ship, laughing, stopping, starting again, creating memories I couldn’t forget even if I tried.

I watched her at the onboard water park, laughing without hesitation. I watched her point excitedly at the belly flop competition, fully absorbed in the world unfolding around her. I watched her become more observant, more socially aware, more expressive. I watched her practice boundaries and respect, not just for others, but for me. She listened. She engaged. She responded.

Within this floating world, disconnected from the noise and constraints of everyday life, I found freedom. Freedom not just in accessibility, but in identity. Freedom to move beyond survival-mode parenting and step into relational fatherhood. Freedom to realize that some of the fears I’ve carried since my spinal cord injury at the cervical level about whether I could truly be the dad I dreamed of were quietly, powerfully answered.

That freedom was not accidental. We spent seven days aboard Symphony of the Seas, and the accessibility features of the ship played a massive role in what made this experience possible. From seamless thresholds and wide doorways to roll-in showers, accessible room features, appropriate counter heights, and bed heights that actually made sense, the environment felt designed with dignity in mind. The staff was welcoming beyond words, willing to do anything to help anyone, especially those with mobility and accessibility challenges. Dining, seating, entertainment, activities, and navigation throughout the ship were inclusive in a way that meant I never once felt left out. That feeling alone is rare, and it mattered more than I can fully articulate. I will be following up with a full accessibility review of the ship that I plan to share, because experiences like this deserve to be documented and made known.

Another unsung hero of this entire trip was my mobility scooter attachment for my manual wheelchair, the Cheelcare Companion. It was an absolute lifesaver. Between the carpeted corridors, the varied terrain on and off the ship, port days, and the sheer scale of navigating a vessel of this size, the Companion gave me a level of mobility and independence that directly translated into more freedom with Hayden. Over the course of seven days, I logged more than 30 miles on that scooter. Thirty miles of movement. Thirty miles of access. Thirty miles of being able to keep up, explore, and say yes to moments instead of having to pause or opt out. That kind of freedom compounds quickly, especially when you are chasing memories with a two-and-a-half-year-old.

At the same time that this trip marked one of the most meaningful moments of coming into my own as a dad, it also came with the very real reminder that traveling with young kids is no small feat. We were fully in the thick of it, traveling alongside my brother and his wife with their two kids, navigating nap schedules that never quite lined up, energy levels that shifted by the hour, and dining reservations that somehow always conflicted with when childcare actually opened. There were moments where the timing felt comically off, where one child was ready to eat, another was melting down, and the adults were just doing their best to laugh through it. Add in the constant recalibration that comes with toddlers in new environments, and it was clear that this trip required just as much parenting as it did patience.

Moments like these are not only possible, they are far more feasible when you travel with family and loved ones. Having people around you who instinctively step in, who hold space, who love on your kids as if they were their own, changes everything. Watching my family jump in to help, to support, to assert the importance of shared responsibility reminded me yet again that none of this is meant to be done alone. It reinforced the reality of our village, not as a concept, but as something lived and practiced, especially in the moments when parenting feels layered, loud, and demanding.

And yet, all of it was worth it. The chaos, the unpredictability, the imperfect schedules. If anything, it reminded me that parenting is not about getting it right every time, but about showing up and adapting in real time. That said, I would be lying if I did not admit that somewhere along the way I thought, “A parent only trip might be in order sometime soon,” and I laughed at myself for even thinking it. In all seriousness, though, while my daughter may technically be in her terrible twos, I am starting to wonder if they are not all that terrible after all. Maybe they are just honest. Maybe they are just human. And maybe I am not that bad of a dad either. Like her, and like all of us, I am simply a work in progress, learning as I go, growing alongside her, and figuring it out one moment at a time.

This cruise gave me something I didn’t know I needed. It gave me proof.

One of my greatest takeaways coming home was the realization that the same opportunities I found at sea also exist at home, if I am willing to look for them. For all the things I sometimes tell myself I cannot do, there is always something productive, meaningful, and engaging that I can do. For many of us as parents, and especially as dads or moms in today’s world, that starts with eliminating distractions, choosing presence over noise, asking better questions, and remembering that our kids are always watching. They are learning far more from how we live than from what we say.

With that in mind, I have my sights set on the new challenges and, more importantly, the new opportunities that my everyday life at home is offering me alongside Hayden and my nine-month-old son, Chase. Each stage is different. Each moment invites a different version of me to show up. And while the cruise gave me clarity, home is where the real work and the real growth now continues.

I am incredibly fortunate to be walking this journey with an unbelievable wife, someone who carries more than most people ever should, and does so with grace, resilience, and unwavering support. When you have a partner like that, all things feel possible. And when that partnership is surrounded by an extended family like ours, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, and so many more, you begin to understand something deeply humbling.

It truly takes a village.

I am more aware now than ever how blessed I am to have that village. A village that insulates, supports, and strengthens us. A village that allows me to thrive, to grow, to parent, and to continue becoming the dad I am working so hard to be.

Almost everybody in any village can step up if they would like to take on their role of being a parent or parenting. However, those of the select lucky few in this world that get the last opportunity to be called a “dad,” and that is a title that I take most seriously. And for those that get parents, much like myself, and others in our village who are helping us parent our kids, we need you!

I also carry an immense sense of gratitude for my parents and for the gift they gave all of us by making a trip like this possible. To be able to gather our entire family, especially during the holidays, and share an experience that created connection, rest, and lasting memories is a blessing that goes far beyond the trip itself. They have always reminded us, not through words but through action, of the importance of family, generosity, and togetherness. This experience was a reflection of that legacy. It was a gift we did not earn, but one we will always carry with us, and I am deeply thankful for the way they continue to give more than we could ever deserve.

I would recommend this experience to anyone looking to travel. To anyone searching for accessible travel that doesn’t feel limiting. And especially to any parent, dad, or mom who feels boxed in by circumstance and is looking for a different way to show up for their child.

Sometimes, it takes stepping into a new environment to discover a version of yourself you’ve been waiting to meet.

For me, somewhere between the elevators, the pizza dates, the long hallways, and the laughter of a two-and-a-half-year-old girl chasing her dad, I found mine.

And I’ll carry that version of myself home with me.

Right when I got home I took it seriously to figure out how I could better engage as a dad with my kids and this was one of the first things I found, purchased, and got set up. While we did have to take some precautions and safety measures, this little scooter attachment that typically goes to a stroller, I found a way to attach to my wheelchair, where now I can wheel around my daughter like we are on our own little adventure at home. A new opportunity and new routine I relish coming home to every day.