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Dad follows his daughter during her 5 A.M. jog for the sweetest reasons

“I have whatever the opposite of daddy issues are.”

Photo credit: Canva

Running in the dark raises safety concerns.

A woman going out on an early morning run is showing everyone what being a good father looks like. Social media fitness influencer Orey shared a TikTok praising her father’s protection and motivation to achieve her goals.

“I have whatever the opposite of daddy issues are because my dad drives behind me during my 5 A.M. runs to make sure that I’m safe,” said Orey in the video’s caption. In the video, Orey gives her dad a fist bump through the open driver’s seat window before running off into the dark streets as her dad monitors her from his car.

@oreyfit

he’s a GOOD man savannah !!!! #run #runningmotivation #running #fyp #runningcommunity #runninginspiration #runhappy #runnergirl

Most outdoor joggers prefer to get their run in early in the morning to avoid traffic and pedestrians that would clog up city streets. It’s also a more comfortable time to run for people who live in warmer climates that get significantly hotter during the day, such as in Los Angeles where Orey resides. Unfortunately, though, such runs aren’t always safe.

Running outdoors when it’s dark can be risky, especially for women. There have been several news stories over the years about how runners being harassed or assaulted while running alone on the streets or in a park. While there should be a conversation on how to permanently ensure the safety of the public while they exercise, it’s currently necessary to actively find ways to protect yourself. Or, in Orey’s case, reflect upon how special it is that someone steps up for you.

The commenters on Orey’s TikTok shared similar stories from their parents:

“My dad finds parking in the Bronx for me and moves his car when I come home. 🥺”

“I didn't have my dad, but my mom would follow me to work when I would have to be there at 5 A.M. to open and stay until another employee showed up.”

“My dad would walk to the beach a block from our house at 2 A.M. after his night shift to check on me on my night 'walk' and walk me home…I was in my 30s. 🥰🥰🥰🥰”

Parents often protect their children through limitations, even when they’re grown. “Don’t do that at night.” “That’s too dangerous of a commute.” “You could get hurt, best to forget about it.” While well-intentioned, that approach can create a boundary in the relationship and a lack of trust in an offspring’s ability to be independent. If Orey’s dad had that mentality, it could create resentment from Orey and he would still be worried for her if she decided to run before dawn.

Instead, Orey’s dad did something great parents do—he participated. It’s special when anyone inconveniences themselves to support their loved one’s goals. If he was going to feel restless knowing that his daughter was going to run at 5 A.M., might as well go along with her, right?

“Let me drive you there and back.” “Let’s make a plan together in case the worst happens.” “Can I do it with you?” This approach not only creates peace of mind for the parent but also strengthens the bond with the child as a wonderful side benefit. And it isn’t just applicable for parents and their kids, but also between spouses, partners, and friends, too. You not only help keep them safe as they pursue their goals but are actively there when they achieve them.

It’s an unfortunate reality that safety is never 100% guaranteed, but providing protection in tandem with support creates something special between those that love one another. That alone is worth an early alarm each morning.

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A 15-year-old interviewed her mother with a disability. Here's their powerful exchange.

There are no rules as to what makes up a loving family.

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#WhoWeAre

Meet Bonnie Brown. She's a single mother who works at Wendy's to help support her teenaged daughter. She also has a disability.

Recently, Bonnie was interviewed by her 15-year-old daughter, Myra, for a StoryCorps video where she opened up about what it's like to be a single parent who is intellectually disabled.

Amazingly, this conversation manages to put that sometimes indescribable bond between a mother and her daughter into words. It also highlights the protective nature of their relationship.

"There were times when we would go out, and people would just blatantly stare, and I would say something," Myra says in the video.

Every mother-daughter relationship has its ups and down, of course, just like any other relationship. But for this pair, Bonnie's disability is just one of the things that makes up who they are. We all have stuff to carry, and this is something they both carry, together.

Watch the moving conversation between this mother and her daughter in the video below:

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9 photos that document 7 years of mental illness in a really powerful way.

Melissa Spitz's mother was institutionalized for the first time when Melissa was 6 years old.

Back then, Mrs. Spitz had just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and as the years went by, her mental health continued to decline. She worked her way through a hysterectomy and cancer treatment, which led to alcohol abuse, a prescription pill problem, and, eventually, a divorce from Spitz's father.

"I was actually extremely fortunate and started seeing a therapist when I was 13. It was initially to deal with my mother’s recent cancer diagnosis, but naturally a lot came up," Spitz said. "As a kid it was chaos and nothing made sense. I empathize with her a lot more, but I really feel as if I am still putting all the pieces back together."

"The last time Dad remembers Mom being 'Normal,' Bumbershoot, Seattle, 1994." All photos by Melissa Spitz/You Have Nothing to Worry About, used with permission.

After her parents' divorce, Spitz turned to photography as a coping mechanism. But it wasn't until she got to art school that she turned the lens on her own mother.

One of Spitz's undergraduate photography projects at the University of Missouri involved documenting an element of her private life for class. There was no question that she'd be heading home to immortalize her mother's fragile state.

"By turning the camera toward my mother and my relationship with her, I capture her behavior as an echo of my own emotional response," she explained in her artist statement. "The images function like an ongoing conversation."

True to her mother's bipolar diagnosis, the resulting photo series, "You Have Nothing to Worry About," depicts a life of stark binary contrasts.

Spitz shoots candids as well as posed photos. Some images upset; others encourage. Some show the good parts of her relationship with her mother, and some show the bad.

Spitz passed the class, of course. But seven years later, she still hasn't finished the project. In fact, she plans to keep documenting her mother's struggle with mental illness as long as she's alive — for her mother's sake and for her own.

"Picture at home, 2015."

"It can be exhausting, but it is extremely cathartic," Spitz said.  "I really believe every image is just as much an image of me as it is of her."

"How can it not be?"

"We are both willing participants and both share the highs and lows of our relationship," she added.

"Mom doing her make-up, 2016."

Spitz eventually uploaded her photos to Instagram and found that the framed and fractured feel of the feed actually enhanced the experience of viewing the photos.

"I decided to try something new and started slicing my images and building these grids. It felt like the perfect opportunity to think about a social media platform in a different way," she explained.

The scattered chronology, varying photo sizes, and fragmented images that resulted made the photo series even more reflective of her mother's condition and their relationship.

A screengrab of Spitz's Instagram feed, showing a collage of the first portrait she took in 2009 (below) and shots from an exhibition where she displayed her photo "Quiet Please, 2016" in a similar fashion.

Instagram has also helped her vivid images to reach a wider audience — many of whom deal with similar problems.

Spitz's photographs don't just put the spotlight on her mother. They've also contributed to the larger conversation about mental health and helped to encourage people to share their own stories, often in the comments of her Instagram page.

"I have always wanted mental health to be treated the same way as physical ailments and that support for family members would be more readily available," Spitz said. "I hope my body of work and Instagram can be a small champion of this support system."

"Note from Adam to Mom, 2012," which inspired the name of the photo series.

Spitz has captured countless moments of bleak, honest beauty on camera. But she's seen her share of frights as well.

There are photos in the series of her mother's continued panic attacks, for example. Other photos show the huge regime of pills her mother relies on for stability and a B.B. gun, which her mother keeps "for protection."

"My brother and I have come to terms with the harsh reality that one day we will most likely be survivors of a suicide. It is our biggest fear," Spitz wrote in one particularly harrowing post, accompanying an image of her mother sprawled out on the carpet. She explained:

"When I used to live at home I hated unlocking the door, I constantly imagined her dead. As a kid I found my Mom laying on the kitchen floor, or bathroom floor multiple times. I remember her looking at me once and asking, 'Where’s Melissa?' She was so out if she couldn’t even recognize my face… I was 16."

Photography makes it easier for Spitz to cope and understand her mother. But it can't cure her mother's illness.

For all her struggles, her mother is moved by the power of her daughter's work — and she hopes that it can help other people, too.

"If I can help one person not feel alone, I am glad I’ve shared my story," her mother said.

When Spitz first embarked on her photographic journey, her mother was still living in the house that she had owned with her ex-husband and was still drinking heavily. But she was given a new voice just from seeing herself through her daughter's eyes. That empowerment helped lead her to quit drinking and to move into a new apartment.

Spitz's relationship with her mother is just one story of life with mental illness. But her willingness to share that hard story with the world is really important.

Not every case of bipolar disorder — or of difficult-but-loving mother-daughter relationships — looks the same. Even Spitz herself is careful to point out that her work is not intended as a blanket statement on mental health overall.

But at a time when mental illness is still constantly stigmatized, stories like these can open people's eyes and remind us that every family has their struggles and that everyone deserves compassion and support.

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What I’m learning about raising a child through all of their 'first times.'

The other times will have their own meaning, with different value and depth, but when you meet your first child, it will be that very thing: the first time, never to be replicated again.

She will be impossibly small, and her chin will waver with an accusing uncertainty from the moment they place her warm body into your arms. How can you be my mother? You don’t look like you know what you’re doing.

And this will be true because, of course, you do not have the slightest clue.

You will assess the situation together, this first child and you. As a mother, you will notice the indentations where her knuckles should be, the rolls of fat that circle around her neck, her mottled skin and bald head. Improbably, she will seem insanely beautiful. Terrifyingly fragile.

She will hate the loudness of the room, the brightness of the lights. She will miss her old, wet burrow, with its cramped safe corners and dark shadows. Her furry brow will fold slowly. Then her unseeing eyes will blink up into the near space between the both of you, where you hold her close to your chest. Well, I guess this is it. We will have to make the best of it.

And then she will begin to cry. And you will begin to cry too.

In a day’s time, you will bring your daughter home and grow her up, in all the ways you know.

You will figure out how. She who knew from the beginning you never knew it all will regard you with purpose anyway.

She will do amazing things while you are worrying away the time. While you are cutting away the crusts. She will grow milk teeth and then grown-up ones. Someone named Mrs. Bastien will teach her cursive and make her learn which is the left hand and which is the right. She will save worms from baking on the sidewalk in the sun. She will love the things you hate and hate the things you love, and you will drive each other mad — all before she learns to drive.

Me and my daughter, Annabelle. Photo by Nicole Jankowski.

As her mother, you will do amazing things, too.

You will learn to need less: less sleep, less care, less time. You will give more. You will learn to tell the difference between "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb" on the recorder, but it will hurt. You will not say things you would almost always have said, just to keep the peace. What hard strength there is in the measurement of unsaid words. You will be in a hurry to get to the better times when the times are worn and exhausting. Then you will hold your breath and wish it would all just stop spinning, when you realize how quickly 5 years old became 10 and then 10 years old became 15.

You will cut your own teeth, sharply, on the mothering of this first child. You will do the worst job this first time. But it will be the purest experience, the one that lives forever in your gut. The one that makes you homesick, always, for the time when she did not know anything but you and it was all so very new and unfiltered.

It will be wonderful and terrible, heartbreaking and tumultuous. You will hate it sometimes, and you will love it. You will stand nearby and watch her figure out the balance of things with the eye of someone so simultaneously invested and so incredibly powerless. It will hurt you more than she can know.

Do not tell her how much it hurts.

One day you will be counting her fingers and her toes, and the next, you will see her looking off into some foggy distance and she will be smiling. It will be the first time you realize she is counting the days until she leaves you for her first adventure, all alone.

You have only minutes now, it seems, until she leaves the house for the last time with her bedroom door wide open. There are only fleeting ribbons of days and wispy years until the last time she goes — the time she goes away, when she won’t be coming back again.

For the very first time.

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