A Thousand More Meanings

“It’s not the fourth child that costs you your life—it’s the absence of meaning that will.”

The One-Way Door That Changed Everything

It’s 8:50 p.m.

I’m doing my nightly reflection, and all three of my boys are walking around me, half-distracted, half-listening, but still present. The room feels alive, not quiet. And yet somewhere in the noise of them being kids—talking, poking each other, crawling in and out of my arms—I feel something shift.

This is probably the second-last time we’ll go to the hospital before our daughter arrives. Very soon, I will officially be a father of four.

A father of Arielle.

And I know this isn’t just another milestone. This is a one-way traffic moment. Once you step into this new rhythm, you don’t return. The family dynamic will change forever. It’s not reversible.

And the weight of that decision… it’s different. You don’t “add a child” like you add a new hobby. You open a door, and behind it is an entirely new life you don’t get to preview. You just walk in.

I remember something a mentor once told me. He said, “Having a child is an 18-year assignment.” And back then, that scared me. But now I know—he was wrong.

It’s not 18 years. It’s forever.

Because parenting doesn’t end when they turn 18. My parents are still deeply involved in my life, helping with our kids. Yes, they sacrifice. They get frustrated. And they’re also deeply fulfilled. They’re not perfect, but they love us with everything they have. If they could exchange their life for ours, I think they would.

That’s how deep it goes.

The Numbers That Changed My Perspective

Sometimes I think in numbers. It helps me make sense of the weight.

If one child takes 18 years… and the next child comes two years later, that’s 18 + 2. Add another one three years later? 18 + 2 + 3. And now, with this fourth child—spaced out again—it’s like a 28-year marathon of parenting, minimum. Non-stop. Overlapping.

That’s not just tiring. That’s lifetime-level commitment.

Last week I had a casual chat with a friend from Tawau, Sabah. She comes from a big family—six siblings. I couldn’t help but joke, “Your mom basically spent more than half her life just taking care of babies.”

I laughed. She laughed. But inside, it hit me: it’s true.

And if you’re single, that idea might scare you. Honestly, it scared me too before I got married. The idea of that much adjustment? That much surrender? It felt overwhelming.

But something changes when it’s your child. When it’s your family. The fear doesn’t disappear—but it transforms.

It becomes weight with meaning.

Choosing What You Cannot Control

The truth is, we didn’t plan this child.

Not exactly.

And yet—we did choose her. Not with logic. Not with strategy. But with surrender.

Some people couldn’t understand why we would “lock ourselves in” to this kind of commitment again. To them, having a fourth child looks like giving up your freedom.

But to us, it’s the opposite.

We believe this child doesn’t belong to us. None of them do. They belong to themselves. And ultimately, they belong to God. We’re just stewards. That’s a big part of our family value: stewardship, not ownership.

And maybe that’s why parenting changes us so deeply. Because it reminds you—you are not in control. And strangely, that’s where love grows.

A Dream, A Lion, A Daughter

The night before we confirmed her name, I had a strange dream.

There was a tiger. A lion. And a third animal I couldn’t quite recall. At first, the tiger was dominant—fierce, fast. But over time, the lion overtook it. Right before the tiger was devoured, I woke up—startled by my wife’s alarm. She had forgotten to switch it off.

Lying there half-awake, I told her, “You just interrupted a very interesting dream.”

I told her everything. And strangely, she had been in the dream too—beside me the whole time. But what really stuck was this: the lion defeated the tiger. And I’m born in the Year of the Tiger.

I’ve always believed the tiger is stronger. It’s my sign. My bias. I’ve even watched those YouTube comparison videos. Tiger always wins, right?

But in the dream, the lion won.

And it felt personal. Symbolic.

My interpretation? The lion is Arielle.

The next generation will be stronger than the previous one. She will outgrow me. Outlive me. Out-lead me. And instead of fearing that—I welcomed it.

That dream didn’t just help me embrace her name. It helped me embrace what her name would mean.

Why We Named Her Arielle

We spent so long naming her. It was hard—harder than any of the boys.

We wanted consistency. All our boys have four-letter names. The name had to sound right, feel right, grow well with time. But it also had to mean something. Not just pretty on the surface—but powerful beneath.

Eventually, Arielle stood out. It means “lion of God.”

Strong. Majestic. Bold.

We didn’t want her to just blend in. We wanted her name to carry a quiet roar. A calling.

And once we said it aloud—Arielle—we both knew.

This was it.

Traditions Born from Each Child

Every child has brought a new tradition into our family.

For our firstborn, I made a highlight video of his entire first year of sleep. A one-year journey of baby monitors and sleepy moments, stitched together. That became a tradition. I did it for the second. Then the third. I’ll do it again for Arielle.

We also take a family portrait every time a new child arrives. It’s like freezing that moment of completeness.

• The first portrait: three of us.
• The second: four.
• The third: five.
• Now, soon—six.

And each time, it feels complete. Whole. Enough. And yet, each time, there’s more.

This morning, we brought Arielle (still in the womb) for check-up. And after that, we went for breakfast—just me and my wife. It felt like a date. And all of this—every extra effort, every realignment—it’s because of her.

Even the gifts we give the boys—we tell them, “This is from your meimei.” It creates bonding before she even arrives. It makes her real. Tangible. Loved.

She hasn’t even entered the world yet, and she’s already reminding us how to slow down and love again.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

So many people say children take away your freedom. That they are a burden. A pause button on your dreams.

But here’s the truth:

It’s not the fourth child that costs you your life.

It’s the absence of meaning that will.

Freedom without purpose is emptiness.

Yes, parenting is hard. Yes, it’s inconvenient. And yes, you will lose some things—sleep, spontaneity, space.

But what you gain?

You gain a soul who will carry your legacy further than you can go.

You gain reasons to document, to celebrate, to slow down.

You gain a story that only a parent can tell.

The opposite of meaning isn’t struggle. It’s forgettability.

And I refuse to live a life so preserved that it never left a mark.

Arielle, You’ve Already Made Me Braver

In our faith, we don’t believe children are “ours.” They are a trust. A sacred gift. And my job isn’t to perfect them. It’s to prepare them.

My parents named me Daniel—after a prophet who stood firm in the lion’s den. For years, I didn’t feel worthy of that name. But as I grew, I began to understand it. And now, as a father, I finally live it.

Now I name you, Arielle. And this is what I pray your name becomes:

A lion with purpose.

A daughter with strength.

A legacy stronger than mine.

Arielle, welcome.

You haven’t even arrived yet, and already—you’ve given me a reason to become more.

One more child.

A thousand more meanings.