A personal reflection on the hobbies, routines, and quiet freedoms one man left behind when a baby entered his life—
When you’re a 52-year-old single man who has lived alone his entire life, rarely goes out, doesn’t socialize, and has no close friends or romantic relationships, the amount of free time you have with yourself is practically unlimited. Over the years—probably thanks to the life path I chose and the life experience it brought with it—I learned how to use that time well and squeeze as much enjoyment out of it as possible.
Even before Sara was born, I knew that her arrival was about to change my life completely. In fact, it would no longer really be mine. From that point on, it would be devoted entirely to my daughter. Giving up old habits and adopting new ones isn’t easy, but I did it willingly and accepted the drastic shift in my priorities as something natural.
And yet—even though today I feel far more complete than I ever did before—every now and then I look back with longing at the life that no longer exists. On paper, I didn’t lose much by becoming a father; in fact, I gained a great deal. Still, these are the things and dreams I left behind, at least for this stage of my life.
Writing
From a young age, I loved writing fiction. At first short stories, later fantasy novels, and eventually thrillers. Some of them were self-published and failed spectacularly; all the rest were buried in a drawer. But that never discouraged me, and I always kept trying.
Beyond the simple enjoyment of writing, it was perhaps the only way I had to feel any sense of control over my life. I created worlds, invented lives, and made use of a basic writing ability I always took pride in—my relative advantage in the human world. Today, I channel that potential into writing this blog, and it’s no less fun than writing fiction.
Sports
Another area I always excelled in and truly loved was sports. From childhood, I showed above-average amateur athletic ability, especially in long-distance running. I loved training for marathons, running about 12 miles a day with music blasting—usually heavy metal—pumping through my brain and pushing me into maximum drive.
In my teens I also got into bodybuilding and reached what were, by any standard, impressive results. A back injury forced me to stop. I returned to the gym in my late forties and surprised both myself and those around me with how much weight I could lift. But at that age, muscles no longer develop the way they used to, while injuries become more frequent and severe—so I stopped.
My daily physical activity eventually became long walks—about an hour and a half—again with music setting the pace. Since Sara’s birth, I haven’t done any sports at all. During parental leave I gained weight, which recently pushed me to start daily ab workouts alongside a diet.
The Ability to Be Alone and Disconnected
I won’t lie—I loved being disconnected from the world. Coming home after a workday, closing the door, and leaving the world outside. The quiet, the privacy, the solitude, the hobbies—I waited for them eagerly every time I was away from home.
I loved that no one bothered me or forced me to be part of their world, with all its problems and successes. None of that interested me, and whatever I had to offer in that realm I saved for work. At home, it was just me and myself.
Since becoming a father, that’s no longer an option. For my daughter’s sake, I have to open myself up more to the world and take part in the society around me, with everything that entails. I need to be more aware of what’s going on—globally and locally—and I have to change my approach and improve my ability to interact with people. I can already picture myself buttering up Sara’s future daycare teacher in the hope she’ll get special treatment, and maintaining friendly relationships with the other kids’ moms (which will clearly require me to improve my ability to gossip). Who knows—maybe I’ll even end up on the parents’ committee. Anything for my daughter’s happiness and well-being.
Music
Like many people with too much free time on their hands, music played a central role in my life. I couldn’t imagine my life without it. So I invested in a proper stereo system with large, high-quality speakers, as well as expensive sports headphones that served me faithfully when I was out of the house.
I loved almost every kind of music: heavy metal, alternative rock, pop from different eras (especially the ’80s, my childhood years), techno, house, movie soundtracks—you name it. Long ago, neighbors used to complain that their walls shook whenever I turned on the monstrous speakers in my living room.
I especially loved surrendering to music on Friday nights, stretched out on the couch, feet up on the recliner, eyes closed, fully immersed in the sounds I loved. This beloved hobby, too, is no longer part of my new routine. These days, the only music I hear comes from YouTube videos by children’s entertainers—the heroes of the next generation.
Alcohol
I was never a heavy drinker. But every now and then—especially on Friday nights—I enjoyed drinking, mostly wine, and catching a pleasant buzz. Sometimes I even got drunk—usually a positive experience—and then collapsed onto the couch with a smile on my face.
Not anymore. The irony is that after Sara’s birth I received many gift baskets, some of them containing bottles of wine, which now keep piling up in the kitchen cabinet. As the saying goes back home, God gives nuts to those without teeth.
The Penthouse
Before I made the final decision to enter the expensive surrogacy process, I seriously considered using my hard-earned savings to move into a larger apartment. I had a clear goal: a penthouse. Nothing extravagant—just a place with a large rooftop terrace in my neighborhood, which I love.
I had a fantasy of myself on Friday afternoons, lounging in a giant beanbag on my roof, a bowl of cold watermelon slices in my hand, on top of the world—literally. I even looked at several penthouses nearby and almost entered negotiations to buy one, alongside selling my current apartment.
That dream died for financial reasons the moment the dream of surrogacy took over my imagination. Between the two, the choice was obvious.
The Mercedes
As someone who spends most of his time at home, I never really needed a car. In rare cases, I could borrow my parents’ old Subaru. My workplace was close enough that I always took the bus—it’s convenient and lets you sleep an extra fifteen minutes before arriving. I never liked driving in the morning anyway. Who needs the traffic?
Throughout my life, I owned only one car, purchased solely for a sales job. When I left that job, I sold it immediately and used the money to pay down part of my mortgage.
Still, for some reason, I always fantasized about owning a luxury car. In the second half of my forties, I even started looking into it—at the same time I was considering a penthouse. With the money I had saved, I could have bought a brand-new Mercedes—though not one of the oligarch-level models. On James Bond–mood days, I even checked out second-hand Aston Martins.
Realistically, I probably wouldn’t have bought any car at all. For someone like me, a car of any kind just isn’t practical. It would have just sat in the parking lot, losing value and collecting dust. Just another childish fantasy.
PlayStation
When I turned forty, I did a few things I never imagined I would. One of them was buying a PlayStation. I had just finished paying off my mortgage and wanted to reward myself after years of saving with something a bit childish and fun—a new hobby.
The moment I bought the PS4, it took over my life. I discovered a thrilling new world that became a central pillar of my existence—an addictive passion that made staying at home enjoyable on a completely different level. The beginning wasn’t easy. The world was new to me, and I wasn’t blessed with great finger coordination, which required patience and careful game selection.
But once I got the hang of it—wow. I became so obsessed with certain franchises that I not only bought all their PS4 games, but also bought an Xbox just to play their older titles. I played a huge variety of games and developed a particular love for racing games—not that I was any good at them.
Eventually, I even bought an expensive racing wheel and seat, which made the addiction and the driving experience even more immersive. I gave all of that up completely when Sara was born. More than that, to make room at home for my daughter, I removed the massive racing seat that had taken up a significant portion of the living room.
Porn
There’s no need to elaborate. Every man—single or married—knows exactly what I’m talking about. The strange thing is that since becoming a father, I don’t miss it the way I used to. Maybe because the new role drains every ounce of my energy. Or perhaps because, since Sara was born, I find it harder to forget that behind every image is a real person, with a life, a story, and someone who loves her.
That’s it—more or less a list of the things I had to leave behind in order to become a father. Those of you who are parents will surely understand when I say openly that it was worth leaving the old version of myself behind so I could devote myself to the most challenging and rewarding “hobby” of all: being a dad.
Who knows—maybe I’ll return to some of them one day, when I retire and Sara has a family of her own. Until then, Sara remains the center of my life.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Sara and Me 
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What I found most interesting about this post is that it quietly challenges a common assumption about happiness. Many people spend their lives chasing freedom, comfort, privacy, financial security, and the ability to do exactly what they want whenever they want. You had achieved much of that, yet the post suggests that fulfillment came from somewhere else entirely.
The structure works very well because each section represents more than a hobby or a dream. Writing isn’t just writing—it’s creativity and control. Sports aren’t just exercise—they’re discipline and personal achievement. The penthouse and the Mercedes aren’t really about property or cars—they symbolize possibilities, independence, and a future you once imagined for yourself.
What makes the piece compelling is that there is no bitterness in it. There is nostalgia, certainly, and even a little sadness, but never regret. You allow yourself to miss parts of your old life while still recognizing that becoming Sara’s father gave your life a meaning those things never could.
I was particularly struck by the sentence:
“On paper, I didn’t lose much by becoming a father; in fact, I gained a great deal.”
In many ways, that line captures the entire spirit of the essay. The rest of the post is essentially an exploration of what that gain actually cost—and why it was worth paying the price.
Another strength is your self-deprecating humor. Whether you’re talking about becoming friends with daycare moms, replacing your music collection with children’s YouTube songs, or daydreaming about a Mercedes that would mostly sit in a parking space collecting dust, the humor makes the piece feel genuine rather than sentimental.
Above all, the post succeeds because it tells a universal story through very personal details. Most readers will never become a single father at 52, but almost everyone understands what it means to let go of one version of themselves in order to become another.
By the end, “Goodbye to Old Yaniv” feels less like a farewell and more like a transformation. The old life is remembered fondly, but the reader is left with little doubt that the new one is richer, fuller, and ultimately more meaningful.
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