Recently, my family welcomed a brand-new member, Mr. Powers Timothy David Bohl, who at the time of his arrival weighed 8 lbs 9 oz and measured 19.5”, and who despite his diminutive size conquered all of our hearts as soon as he showed up. Becoming a grandfather has been everything I imagined it would be, and so much more. In many ways, his arrival seems like a culmination of my own search for identity, and his presence roots me in my Reality so solidly that I don’t imagine I would ever waver again. As I hold my grandson in my arms, I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude—grateful that I am in a time and place where I can be fully present for him. I find myself spending hours simply being with him, soaking in every smile, every gurgle, every moment. This time feels like a precious gift, one I am ready and eager to embrace with open arms.
As I care for and soothe my grandson, I feel an overwhelming sense of humble competence, and, yes, maybe even wisdom. This feeling is something I did not always possess as a father, especially with my first child. I remember the uncertainty, the second-guessing, the fear that I might not get it right. And when my kids were older, I wasn’t always able to be present for them because of my active addiction. There are parts of their childhood that I only know from photographs and in that way, I know I have robbed myself of the very thing I’ve been searching for which was the sense of belonging. But now, as a grandfather, there is calm. There’s knowing that I am solid and that others can count on me because I know I can count on myself. There’s a quiet confidence that comes from experience too, from having lived through those early days of parenting and learning so much along the way. And being present, I am more at ease now, more attuned to the rhythm of a baby’s needs. I know how to cradle him just so, how to soothe his cries with a gentle hum or a soft touch. It’s as if I am rediscovering a part of myself I didn’t know existed back then—a part that feels steady and secure.
Being with my grandson also gives me ample time to reflect on what I lacked during my own early years and what I needed but did not receive. As a relinquishee I carry with me the echoes of that early separation from my family of origin. Those echoes have shaped who I am in countless ways, some visible, others hidden deep within. Now, as I look into the eyes of this tiny new human, I can’t help but think about the things I wish had been communicated to me when I was his age. I think how being relinquished probably robbed me of the ability to recognize those things even if they were present in my life. For those reasons and because that is simply my job as his grandfather, I want my grandson, Powers, to know that he is loved unconditionally. Not just know it intellectually, but feel it, down to the core of his being, for the entirety of his life. That is my deepest hope for him—that he walks through this world never doubting that he is cherished, valued, and loved beyond measure.
There is also a profound sense of empowerment that comes from being able to pass along my medical and genetic history to this new generation. Growing up, I didn’t have the benefit of knowing these things about myself. There were always blanks about who I was and where I came from. But now, I can offer this knowledge to Powers and his parents. I can give them a fuller picture, one that includes not just the genetic details but the story of resilience, of survival, of finding one’s way back to family. This ability to share feels like a gift, not just to them, but to myself as well. It allows me to better understand the reality of who I am, to piece together the fragments of my own story into something whole and coherent.
It is an indescribable honor that my son and his wife have chosen to name him Powers Timothy David Bohl, giving him my name. This gesture speaks volumes—it is an acknowledgment, a tribute, a weaving together of past and present. It tells me that they see me, that they understand the journey I have been on, and that they honor it. In some ways, it feels like a balm for the wounds of the past, a way of rewriting the narrative into one of connection and continuity.
Photo by Aditya Romansa on Unsplash
As I look ahead, I am filled with hope and wonder. I hope to be there for Powers as he grows, to be a steady presence in his life, to share with him not just stories of where he comes from, but also lessons of resilience, of love, of the power of family. I am not a religious person, but this baby, this remarkable little human, is truly a miracle. He is not only a unique individual, but his very existence is an extraordinary event. Given the disruptions and gaps in his ancestral DNA—my own history of being separated from my birth family—it feels like a phenomenon that he is here at all. His birth is a reminder of the resilience of life, of the way love and family can transcend the fractures of the past. I know that his arrival isn’t about me, but I can’t help but feel so grounded as my family expands. It feels like a circle is being completed, one that I had never imagined would close.
