This morning feels different. Yesterday was our last full day at Disney World, and while we don’t have a Lyft coming until later this afternoon, the vacation is effectively over. There are swimsuits to dry, suitcases to pack, and the familiar transition back to ordinary life waiting for us in Oklahoma. Another month of summer still stretches ahead before Jett starts school, but this chapter—the one we’ve been anticipating for months—is quietly coming to a close.
I knew it would.
That was never the surprise.
The surprise was just how quickly something you’ve been dreaming about can become something you’re remembering.
Yesterday felt like the perfect ending. Jett rode every ride she wanted to ride. I wandered through Galaxy’s Edge with the same wide-eyed wonder I would have had at twelve years old. Standing beneath the Millennium Falcon was one of those strange moments where childhood and adulthood briefly occupy the same space. Then, after riding Rise of the Resistance, Jett announced that she was finally ready to watch Star Wars. I don’t know if she realizes what she’s committed herself to, but this lifelong science fiction nerd quietly celebrated inside. Some of the greatest joys of parenting aren’t introducing your children to what you love. They’re discovering the moment they decide they want to know why you love it.
As if that weren’t enough, the night gave us one last gift. Riding the Skyliner back toward our resort, we found ourselves surrounded by fireworks. One display exploded over EPCOT, another over Hollywood Studios, and a third appeared off in the distance as we walked along the BoardWalk back to our hotel. It felt almost excessive, as though Disney itself was reluctant to let us leave. I found myself thinking that if someone had scripted the perfect ending to our trip, they probably wouldn’t have come up with something that beautiful.
All day, though, another conversation had been quietly unfolding in the background.
For the last few days I’ve been wrestling with the realization that Jett is growing up. Not in the abstract way parents always say children grow up too fast, but in the deeply personal realization that the version of fatherhood I’ve known for the last eight years is slowly changing. As a stay-at-home dad, being “Dada” hasn’t simply been something I’ve done. It’s become the center around which my life has quietly organized itself.
I’ve started businesses that failed. I’ve had jobs that didn’t stick. By the scoreboard our culture tends to keep, there have been plenty of seasons where I felt like I was falling behind. But I’ve never felt that way about being Jett’s Dada. That’s the one part of my life I can look back on with uncomplicated pride. Not because I’ve been perfect—I certainly haven’t—but because I showed up. Every day. And somewhere along the way I realized that the thing our culture often undervalues became the thing I value most.
So when I imagine her becoming more independent, part of me grieves. Not because I want her to need me forever, but because I have loved being needed. I have loved being the one she runs to. I have loved answering impossible questions, fixing tiny problems, holding her hand through unfamiliar places, and being the safe place she instinctively returns to. I quietly wondered if I was approaching the end of the most rewarding chapter of my life.
Then this trip began teaching me something I hadn’t expected to learn.
Every single day of this vacation surprised me. I thought the first day might be the highlight. Then came another. And another. Every evening I found myself thinking, That may have been the best day yet, only to wake up and discover another one waiting. Every time I thought I’d reached the peak of the experience, life gently smiled and whispered, Keep going.
Somewhere between the fireworks, the conversations, watching Jett talk herself onto bigger roller coasters, and seeing her excitement about entering the world of Star Wars, I realized I’d been making the same mistake with fatherhood that I almost made with this vacation.
I was trying to decide too early where the best part ended.
The truth is, I have absolutely no idea.
Maybe these really are the best years of my life.
Thus far.
Those two words changed everything for me. Thus far doesn’t diminish what I’ve experienced. It doesn’t pretend these years aren’t extraordinary. It simply refuses to assume the story has already reached its highest point. It leaves room for surprise.
One day I’ll get to know nine-year-old Jett. Then the version of her who rolls her eyes at my jokes. Then the teenager discovering who she wants to become. Then the young woman building a life of her own. Maybe, if I’m extraordinarily fortunate, I’ll someday sit across from her over coffee listening to stories about her own adventures. Maybe I’ll even watch her become a parent herself. None of those versions erase the little girl I know today. They simply invite me into a relationship with someone new.
It suddenly occurred to me that I haven’t been losing my daughter all these years.
I’ve been meeting her.
Every birthday has been less of a goodbye than a hello. The toddler who needed help with every step became the little girl who confidently talked herself onto every roller coaster in Disney World. I never mourned that transition because something even more remarkable arrived to take its place. Maybe that’s what every stage of parenthood has always been asking of us—not to hold on to who our children were, but to stay curious about who they’re becoming.
As we pack our bags today, I find myself feeling something I wasn’t expecting. Gratitude, certainly. A little sadness. But underneath both of them is something steadier. Trust. Trust that this won’t be the last great chapter of my life. Only the greatest thus far.