Last night, I tucked my three boys into bed

Last night, I tucked my three boys into bed. The routine is familiar by now, teeth brushed, water sipped, stories read, kisses planted on foreheads. But even the most structured routine can be interrupted by something ancient and primal.

(I wrote this a year ago.)

My youngest son, Henry, age four, wouldn’t stop giggling. He made silly noises under the covers for nearly an hour. I let my wife rest in the other room, she was recovering from a nasty stomach flu, and I took over bedtime duties solo. Patience is key with young boys, and I was prepared for a bit of bedtime mischief. But then something changed.

Henry screamed. Not playfully, genuinely, bone-deep terrified. He bolted upright, flicked on the light switch, and refused to go back into the dark.

He had seen a monster.

A car had passed by, its headlights casting twisted shadows on the wall. To his four-year-old mind, those shadows weren’t tricks of the light, they were real, living threats. Shapes with claws, faces in the dark, something waiting.

You can’t just tell a child that monsters aren’t real. They won’t believe you, not when they’ve seen one. Every instinct in their little body, every ancient thread of DNA still woven from generations of survival, screams: Monsters get you in the dark.

And you know what? That’s not wrong.

For most of human history, the dark meant danger. Long before electricity, walls, and alarms, we huddled by firelight and listened for sounds in the night. Rustling grass might have meant a lion. A snapping twig might have been another human, one with bad intentions. We were prey before we were ever safe. Monsters weren’t fairy tales. They were real. They had fur, or fangs, or knives, or diseases. They crept and crawled and bit and took.

And even now, out beyond the modern glow of our cities and fences, monsters still lurk. Some walk on two legs. Some wait for us to grow careless, to forget. And some never left our minds at all.

So when Henry looked at me with wide, fearful eyes, I didn’t try to explain it away. I didn’t say, “There’s no such thing as monsters.” That would be a lie, and children are remarkably good lie detectors when it comes to fear.

Instead, I picked him up and held him close. I said, “Don’t worry. Daddy is here now. The monsters are afraid of me. Did you see how they ran away when I walked in?”

He nodded.

“When I was your age, I saw monsters too. They scared me. But do you know what I did? I acted brave and told them to go away.”

At that moment, my older son, Levi, ten years old and wise in his own way, got out of his bed and climbed in beside Henry. He wrapped an arm around his little brother.

“Henry,” he said, “if you get scared, you can hide under the blanket. Everybody knows monsters can’t find you if you hide really well. And when you’re ready, you can peek out and say, ‘I see you. I’m not afraid. Go away, you’re not welcome here.’ That’s what I do.”

And just like that, Henry smiled.

They practiced it together. “Go away, monsters!” they shouted, laughing now. The fear turned into play. Levi became a little hero in his brother’s eyes. And eventually, Henry fell asleep.

Levi climbed back into his own bed. The room was quiet again. Peace returned, not because the monsters weren’t real, but because my sons had learned they could face them.

The Monsters of Childhood, and Manhood

That night reminded me of something deeper, something all fathers must eventually teach their children: we don’t banish monsters by pretending they don’t exist. We defeat them by facing them with courage and presence.

The modern world, in its safety and convenience, has dulled our instincts. But our children are still born into the same world our ancestors survived. Their DNA still expects danger. Their fears are ancient and valid. And so is their need for guardians, fathers who don’t dismiss fear, but meet it with strength.

Our job isn’t just to protect our children. It’s to show them how to protect themselves. Not by denying the dark, but by lighting a fire strong enough to push it back. Not by pretending there’s no danger, but by reminding them that they carry the potential for courage.

That night, I passed on a truth to Henry: monsters may be real, but so is the strength inside you. And the more you face them, the smaller they get.

It starts with bedtime monsters.

But one day, it might be a bully, or a crisis, or a failure, or heartbreak. When that day comes, I hope he remembers that night, when his father told him, “They’re afraid of me,” and his brother said, “You can tell them to leave.”

Because monsters don’t just disappear.

They retreat when a man stands up and says: I see you. I’m not afraid. You’re not welcome here.