The following is an excerpt from “Random Thoughts: The Sh*t We Don’t Talk About: Unfiltered Essays on Parenting, LGBTQ+ Life, and Mental Health” by Joseph Tito

When I think about my journey to fatherhood, it feels like a mashup of a marathon and a treasure hunt—equal parts endurance and discovery, with a few plot twists thrown in for good measure. Now toss in being a gay man, navigating surrogacy, and raising twins, and you’ve got a cocktail of life’s most rewarding and occasionally exhausting challenges.

Becoming a dad was always something I wanted, but I wasn’t sure how it would happen. The “traditional” route was never an option, but that’s the thing about being part of the LGBTQ+ community—traditional is often just another word for someone else’s way of doing things. We’re used to breaking new ground, building families that might not fit the standard mold but are rooted in the same foundation as any other: love, respect, and resilience.

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The road to fatherhood wasn’t a straight line—pun absolutely intended. It was more like a complicated dance, a delicate choreography of hope, heartbreak, and unexpected grace. Every step felt like a leap of faith, with the world watching and waiting to see if we’d stumble.

The surrogacy process was a test of patience and faith—four failed embryo transfers, four crushing losses, and an endless stream of Are you sure this is the right path for you? People thought they were being helpful, but their questions only highlighted how little they understood the emotional toll (let alone the financial one) of creating a family the “untraditional” way.

For me, it wasn’t just about having kids. It was about proving to myself—and one day to my children—that I could create the life I dreamed of, even if it didn’t look like anyone else’s blueprint. When Stella and Mia arrived, it felt like the universe had finally said, Alright, here’s your dream.

But dreams don’t come with an instruction manual. Especially when those dreams involve navigating parenthood as a two-dad family in a world that still loves to draw outside the lines.

Of course, the questions didn’t stop just because the girls were here. Suddenly, our family became a walking sociology experiment. Which one of you is the real dad?—as if there’s a fake one hiding in the background. Don’t they need a mom?—because some people still believe families should look like a 1950s sitcom. Some days, I’d patiently explain. Other days, when my patience was running on fumes, I’d deadpan, Nope, they seem to be doing just fine without one. If you can’t laugh at ignorance, you’ll drown in it.

And it’s not just strangers. People you know—people who should know better—ask the most bizarre questions. A preschool teacher once said, How will the girls learn about traditional family roles? I nearly choked on my coffee. Traditional family roles? In 2024? Instead of losing my sh*t (which I was this close to doing), I explained that Stella and Mia would learn about love, empathy, and kindness—values that would take them much further than outdated gender norms.

This is what LGBTQ+ parenting is. It’s not just about raising kids—it’s about educating everyone else, whether you want to or not. It’s filling out school forms that still have “Mother” and “Father” boxes and crossing them out to write Parent 1 and Parent 2. It’s walking into parent-teacher conferences and bracing for the double-takes. It’s constantly challenging outdated systems, one clueless question or antiquated form at a time.

But here’s the beautiful truth: for every awkward moment, for every raised eyebrow or poorly disguised judgment, there’s a moment of pure, breathtaking love that makes it all worth it. When Stella looks at me and says, “I love having two dads,” or when Mia introduces us as her parents without a hint of hesitation—those moments are revolutionary.

On the surface, we might look different from other families. But underneath? We’re running on the same fuel. Love. Commitment. The desperate, all-consuming desire to raise kind, confident, incredible human beings.

The PTA meetings became our battleground and our classroom. Sometimes it was exhausting, being the family that was always slightly different. The whispers. The looks. The questions that felt more like interrogations than genuine curiosity. But we showed up. Every. Single. Time.

Because representation matters. Because every time we walked into that room, we were showing other kids—other families—that love comes in all shapes, sizes, and configurations. That family isn’t about what you look like, but about how fiercely you love.

But on the other side of that frustration is something powerful—an unspoken bond among LGBTQ+ parents. We’re part of a tribe that had to fight for our families. We didn’t just fall into this life—we worked for it, dreamed about it, and created it against odds most people never have to consider. Whether through surrogacy, adoption, fostering, or co-parenting, our families exist because we made them exist. There’s something deeply empowering about that.

When I look at Stella and Mia, I think about the world they’re growing up in. My hope isn’t that they’ll never face challenges—because life tests us all, no matter who we are. What I do hope is that they grow up knowing that family isn’t about bloodlines or fitting into someone else’s definition of normal. Family is about the people who show up for you, day after day, no matter what.

I want them to carry their unique family story with pride. I want them to know that being different isn’t just okay—it’s incredible. And if anyone tries to tell them otherwise, I hope they have the confidence to tell those people to shove it.

To anyone in the LGBTQ+ community considering parenthood: it’s possible. It’s worth it. You’ll discover a strength in yourself you didn’t know existed. Yes, there will be challenges. Yes, there will be moments when you feel like you’re the only one navigating this particular set of struggles. But you are not alone.

There’s a whole community out here—people carving their own paths, asking the same questions, and celebrating the victories, big and small.

As I think about Stella and Mia’s future, my hope is simple. I want them to grow up in a world where families like ours are as accepted and celebrated as any other, where two dads at a parent-teacher conference don’t turn heads, and where school forms actually reflect the beautiful diversity of modern parenthood.

Because love—in all its messy, complicated, beautiful forms—is the only family blueprint we really need.

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