Jettie Jane turns eight today.
Every cliché about time flying turns out to be painfully, beautifully true. It feels like yesterday we were walking her out of the hospital, terrified and elated in equal measure. Only a blink ago she took her first steps across the floor of a restaurant, wobbling forward between tables as if the whole place existed just to witness it. Only a moment ago she met her first friend, told her first joke, asked her first impossible question about the universe.
Every version of her has felt like a miracle.
There was the tiny human who fit on my chest and slept like she owned the world. The wobbly toddler who insisted on doing everything herself. The little girl discovering books, bugs, friendships, and the power of humor. And now this eight-year-old—funny, sharp, kind, observant—standing right at the edge of becoming even more herself.
As time moves, my love doesn’t just remain—it expands. It deepens. It reorganizes itself around each new version of her. I don’t just love who she is today. I love every former self she’s been. I carry them all at once. The baby. The toddler. The fierce five-year-old. They don’t disappear. They layer.
And somewhere in reflecting on that depth, I had a realization yesterday.
I love my parents deeply. Truly. But the love I feel for my daughter exists in a category all its own. It’s overwhelming in a way that defies comparison. In talking to other parents, it seems universal. Something ancient and protective and impossibly tender wakes up when you become a parent. Something that rearranges your priorities without asking permission.
Which means one day, she will likely feel that same kind of love—for someone else.
And that’s where birthdays sting.
Not because she’s growing. I want her to grow. Not because she’s becoming independent. I want her to be strong and autonomous and wildly herself. It stings because I understand the trajectory of life. Children need you completely. Then gradually. Then occasionally. Then in new ways.
I look at the world and see strained relationships between grown children and their parents. Silence where there used to be laughter. Distance where there used to be daily dependence. Misunderstandings calcified into years. I never want that.
I tell her that—maybe too often. I always want to be close to her. Even when her world expands beyond what I can see. Even when her life becomes complicated in the ways all lives eventually do. Even when she doesn’t need me to tie her shoes, check for monsters, or help with math homework.
I want to know each version of her—not just the one that needs me.
I want to earn my place in her adult life the same way I earn it now: through presence, patience, curiosity, and love that doesn’t try to control her becoming.
Because that’s what this whole thing is, isn’t it? Becoming.
She is becoming who she will be. And I am becoming the father she will remember.
When I look at my life from a distance, there are achievements, degrees, work, ideas. But if I’m honest, none of that feels worth mentioning in the story of my life compared to this—being her dad.
Parenthood is difficult, yes. It demands patience you didn’t know you lacked. It exposes your flaws. It forces growth. But the reward—the love—is unmatched.
It’s not abstract. It’s not philosophical. It’s visceral.
Eight years in, and I already know this: the greatest privilege of my life is getting to walk beside her while she becomes herself.
Happy Birthday, Jettie Jane.
I love every version of you. And I can’t wait to meet the next one.