Happy 12th Birthday, Jackson

Dear Jax,

Twelve.

It’s one of those numbers that doesn’t feel like it should carry as much weight as it does. It’s still tucked between childhood and whatever comes next, still young enough that you’re figuring things out in real time, but old enough that I can see the edges of the person you’re becoming starting to sharpen a bit more each year.

I remember writing your first birthday letters thinking I had all the time in the world to understand you. Like growing up was something I could map out, predict, maybe even slow down if I paid close enough attention. I know better now.

You don’t slow down.

You expand.

This year I’ve noticed the way you think before you speak more often. The way you notice things other people miss. The way you care—sometimes quietly, sometimes in bursts that surprise even you. There’s something about twelve that starts to show the kind of person you’re choosing to be when no one is directing the moment for you.

That part matters more than anything else.

Not the grades. Not the stats. Not the wins or losses or comparisons that the world will try to hand you.

Just that quiet question you answer every day without saying it out loud: Who am I going to be when it’s just me deciding?

I see you working on that answer.

And I want you to know—I’m proud of you in ways that don’t always fit into the usual words. Not just for what you do right, but for how you keep going when things feel off, or hard, or confusing. That’s where character actually lives. Not in the highlight moments, but in the in-between ones no one claps for.

Twelve is also where the world starts getting louder. People will start telling you what you should be, how you should act, what you should want. Some of it will be helpful. Some of it won’t fit you at all.

You don’t have to rush to sort it all out.

You just have to keep showing up as yourself, even while you’re still figuring out who that is.

That’s more than enough.

As your dad, I still have moments where I look at you and see flashes of the little kid you were—then it shifts, and I see something new layered on top of it. It’s a strange thing, watching someone you love grow in real time. It’s beautiful and a little bit heartbreaking all at once.

Because every year you don’t just get older.

You also move a little further from who you’ve been.

But I need you to know something clearly: no matter how far you go, you are never outgrowing my love for you. It doesn’t shrink to fit the version of you that was—it just keeps expanding to meet the version of you that is.

So on your 12th birthday, I hope you give yourself room to enjoy it. To laugh a little louder than usual. To do something that makes no sense except that it feels like fun. To be fully in it, without worrying about what comes next for just a little while.

Because you’ll have plenty of time for everything else.

Happy birthday, Jax.

Keep going. Keep becoming. Keep surprising me.

I’m with you in all of it.

Love Always,

Dad

April 27, 2023

April 27, 2024

April 27, 2025

April 27, 2026