You're doing it wrong

It didn’t happen all at once. My youngest would occasionally wake up in the middle of the night, a little confused and scared and would cry. She needed just a moment of comfort from mom or dad and she would go back to sleep. While interruptions of my sleep are never what you would call welcome, at least I was still able to be a source of actual comfort to another human being, and that was, well, comforting. So I, or my lovely wife would stumble downstairs, and after a brief hug, a reinsertion of the binky, and turning on of the musical fish, she would settle down again and sleep the rest of the night.
Over time, instead of going away, the sleep disruptions became more common. Eventually it reached the point where you could set your clock to when she woke up (2:30am) and it was happening nearly every night. Behavioral psychologists know that our going down every time to comfort her was reinforcing the behavior, but behavioral psychologists can fuck off when my daughter wakes up in a panic in the middle of the night.
Then it wasn’t just once a night, it was twice. What was even worse was that as soon as I walked into her room, she would immediately lie down and turn on the musical fish herself. It was now a routine.
Finally it was 3 times in a single night. The last straw had been placed. We had no choice but to “correct” the behavior.
I was in charge the first night of the “deprogramming”. As had become the norm, she woke up crying. Half dressed in a cold house, I went down the stairs to her room and stood in the doorway. “Lie down and go to sleep” I told her, without ever entering the room. The crying got worse instead of better. I was not doing what I was supposed to be doing. I left the doorway and sat down on the stairs out of sight. The crying increased, pulling on me to return. Relief could be mine if only I would make the crying stop. I did not move. I sat, cold and dejected on the stairs, my head in my hands. The cries turned to pleading, first “mama” (of course), then “dada”. Repeated over and over with urgency.
I did not move.
Eventually, after what seemed hours, but was maybe 15 or 20 minutes, the crying and pleading weakened and eventually stopped. I heard her drop down in her crib and the musical fish go on.
I did not move. I had succeeded in getting her to go back to sleep all by herself. Alone. The house was quiet again. In a few more days, we will probably be able to get her to stop doing this completely. I felt no relief. I felt.
Loss.
She had learned a lesson tonight. She had learned that she could not always rely on her father for comfort. She had learned to comfort herself. While this was the lesson that had to be taught, was the lesson I had taught, I found no comfort in it.
I found loss.
I was now less than I was to her before, and was is only the beginning of a long slide downward. She would reach and age where she would be punished because I was angry at her. At some point I would disapprove of her behavior. I would be critical when I should be supportive and supportive when I should be critical. I would fuck up, and fuck up again as a father. Eventually I got up and went to bed.
I was getting cold.