Happy Fourth Birthday, Connor

Connor,

It's fitting that one of the earliest posts on this site is a birthday letter to you. I've had "write birthday letters" on my to-do list for well over a year.

I had no idea that an idea that came from who knows where would somehow spark this entire project.

Not many people know about the letters I've been writing you, but they will soon.

For now, I'm left feeling some sort of way.

I've been thinking about five days that will never be the same for me: June 24th (our anniversary, where we found out your heart wasn't beating anymore), June 25th (your birthday), Father's Day, Christmas Eve, and Christmas.

But as I reflect, none of those days were ever about me in the first place.

I think that's a blessing.

Because it means I don't have to try to feel some sort of way today. I am free to feel however I feel. Today will happen; tomorrow will come.

And the other 360 days a year you get to be you and I get to be me. I get to be a husband and a father and all sorts of things. I get to be a human.

You always get to be the heartbeat that keeps this family alive. You always are, and since we met you, you always have been. And you always will be.

But on these five days, I'm not sure what I am. And I think that's fine. Honestly, it's a heck of a trade. I get to write to you and talk to you and hear from you about all the things going on on this earth, and I get to feel your love, and life can be life. It's not always perfect, but I'm finding a rhythm and a purpose and joy for the first time in my life.

I'm finding that joy lives within me. That I have everything I need to be happy. That nothing another human or institution or anything does or doesn't do can take my joy. It can sure shake it. But if I've made it here to a place where I find more peace and joy during your fourth year of life than I did the rest of mine, how much more joy is there to come this year?

I'm looking forward to this next year Connor, it just looks different than most parents who would say this or write this to their children. In another strand of the multiverse I'm excited for your last year of daycare. I'm excited for you to start learning to read. I'm excited to see how your personality expands from a turbulent three into the boy (and eventually, man) you'll become.

Except I don't have any of those things to look forward to.

I don't know what I have to look forward to.

I don't know what today will hold.

I'm sure at times I'll smile. I know that I'll cry. (Already have twice and it's only 9am!) I'll probably laugh and soak up the love of my children. I'll try to comfort your mother on a day that's somehow harder on her than it is on me.

And today is going to be so hard for me.

I miss you so much son. And that I can write to you and connect with you is amazing, and I can hear you in nature and life... and yet all I can think about is how when you were born and there was silence.

All I can think about is your mom in surgery and the hour of my life where I imagined a future of just me and your sister.

I remember holding you, dead, anticipating another death, wanting to die myself, and only staying alive because of your sister. Because your sister needed me as I held you that night listening to Ten, and that was the only thing I knew in that moment.

But since that moment, you and your siblings have taught me more things than I'll ever need to know.

You are part of the story that shaped me, and while nothing on this earth can redeem your death, your life continues to matter.

It matters to me, and it matters to your mom, and it matters to so many more.

And maybe that's what birthdays are for: remembering that people's lives matter, whether they're here or not.

So instead of trying to predict what I have to look forward to in your fifth year, I want to put into words what I treasure most from your fourth year.

Because your fourth year of life, you helped your daddy learn how to slow down a little before reacting. You helped me learn how to heal. You helped me learn the difference between fighting for something and fighting with something. You helped me learn how to live in the moment and treasure every breath I take.

You helped me go from feeling like I had zero careers and no ways to provide anything for my family to somehow maybe having four. You kept my business alive when I tried to let it die. When I wanted it to die. When I tried to walk away. You just kept a steady heartbeat somehow one grew into four. Somehow one letter to you on the night we gave you away turned into four years of learning and four avenues in my life to pursue that I have a passion for. You helped me find my passion.

You walked with me in a hedge maze at Hampton Court when I fell behind the group and heard someone behind me say your name. I froze. I could barely breathe. But you helped me breathe. You helped me keep walking forward.

You sat with me watching Hamilton in the West End. You got to witness the beauty and the joy and the feelings your father had in a memory that he's going to be talking about until the day he dies. And you held my hand when I cried during "It's Quiet Uptown". Connor, you would like it uptown. It's quiet uptown.

I keep finding new ways to love you and you keep finding new things to teach me.

And I approach a pretty big birthday myself in the fall, I'm so excited about learning more things that actually matter. I know thousands or millions of facts that have no utility in my life, and I'm excited to keep replacing those with things I learn from my family – the thing that really matters.

So happy birthday, Connor. I might call you a few more times today than usual, but I kinda think that's what birthdays are for.

I love you, son.

-Dad