An Open Letter to my Daughter on her Ninth Birthday

Dearest Lily,

You’re about to turn nine years old – halfway to eighteen.

I recently read a blog post that changed how I’m experiencing your childhood. Most of our physical time together happens before you turn eighteen – something like 90%.

That idea has made this birthday hit a little differently. There are only so many moments, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re already well into them.

You’re still my beautiful, charming, and sometimes exasperating Winnie-the-Pooh and Tinkerbell-loving little ragamuffin, for sure. But you’re changing. You’re asking intelligent questions now, forming stronger opinions, and noticing the world beyond your own little orbit. And I can see you trying to figure out where you fit in.

Sometimes, seemingly for no reason, I’ll get a little teary-eyed. Like when I see you in the dugout, laughing and goofing around with your teammates instead of paying attention to the game. Or when you’re lying in bed, reading by the glow of a book light. Or the other day, when I picked you up from school and you were telling me about your day – what you learned, who you sat with, what your friends said – and I realized you’re building a world that’s starting to become your own.

And that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen.

These moments choke me up because they’re bittersweet. You’re becoming your own person – and also someone whose company I treasure.

It’s my choice, Lily, to hold onto that sadness – fiercely. It’s selfish, but it’s intentional. I wouldn’t wish it away even if I could. It reminds me just how lucky I am to be your father.

So I carry it with me every day, right alongside all the happiness, pride, and love in the world.

And as I tell you in every letter and hope you know every day: I will always be there for you. Always. My purpose is to give you roots and wings. Roots so you know where you come from, who loves you, and what things truly matter in life. Wings so you can explore the world, take risks, and trust yourself and your values.

Watching you test those wings is really scary sometimes. But I also know there’s nothing I can do to stop it – nor should I. I have to believe your mom when she reminds me that scraped knees, hurt feelings, and hard days all belong in a childhood that’s being lived fully – and that fear I feel is the tension between wanting to protect you and knowing I need to slowly let you go.

I’m still learning how to manage that. But that’s my work to do, not yours. I want you to keep being you, fully and freely, without looking back for me.

Happy 9th birthday, Lily. I plan to cherish every moment of the next nine years with you. Because I love you more than I can put into words.

And someday, when you read this, I hope you’ll feel it just as clearly as I do now.

Love, Dad