Dear Dad,

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Dad,

On your birthday, right at this very moment, I need you to know that you have given me everything — and I mean everything — that I have ever needed.

You've given me all the small stuff. All the little life lessons, like how to drive ("defensively!"). Like how to play hard ("protect my stick!" and "use my wheels!"). You've taught me what the best book is ("Misty of Chincoteague!"), and where to find the Capitol ("There's the Capitol, kids!"). And most recently, how to sign up for health insurance ("You don't need any of that crap!").

But you've also given me all the big stuff.

You've given me money, but not just money — you have given me the value behind it and the will to work for it myself.

You've given me my sisters and brother, but not just my siblings — you have given me my best friends. You've given me your commitment and marriage to mom, but not just any marriage — a legacy and love that I have looked up to and been in awe of my entire life.

You’ve given me a home, but not just the 327 and 1300 home — you have given me a home within myself, one that whispers inside me that I am strong, and capable, and beautiful, and enough.

You have given me love, but not just any love — you have given me a love riddled with sacrifice and patience, a love that will surely stretch from this life to the next.

But most importantly, you've given me a Dad, but not just any Dad — you've given me a Dad who makes me smile even on my angriest and saddest days. A Dad whose whistle I heard on every sideline and in every audience. A Dad who knows when I need to cry, and when I need to scream, and when I need a swift kick in the ass. A Dad I can see in my hands and feet and freckles and humor. A Dad who listens. A Dad who loves. A Dad who laughs.

And ultimately, no gift, or card, or lengthy social media post, will be able to thank you enough. So... Dad... when's the last time I told you that I love you? Cause I do. More than you know or could ever comprehend. I love you.

Happy Birthday, Stallion.