Every Birthday I Write My Daughter an Email She Won't Open for 18 Years

My daughter turns 7 today. Somewhere between the cake and the LEGO Friends, I wrote her an email she won't open for another 18 years.

It's a little tradition. Every birthday, each of my kids gets a time capsule message. She'll read it when she's 25.

What Goes Into a Time Capsule Email

The little joys of this age: Barbies. LEGO Friends. Country music at dinner, especially one song we've played about 400 times. (Choosin' Texas)

The milestones: Learning to read. Naming capital cities. And basketball, where the ball doesn't reach the rim yet, but the whole gym claps every time she shoots anyway.

A few photos from the year. Nothing curated. Just us, being us.

And always, two pieces of fatherly wisdom.

This year's:

• "Dream big, and believe in yourself. Daddy believes in you."
• "People will give you lots of advice. Mine will always come straight from the heart."

I Still Carry Her on My Shoulders

While writing it, I noticed something.

I still carry her on my shoulders on our walks. I still read her bedtime stories. I still make her chocolate milk.

Because one day she'll be too big. One day she won't want the story. One day the chocolate milk will just be milk.

So I'm doing all of it now, while she still asks. Being present as a father means being my daughter's first example of a man. Every shoulder ride, every bedtime story, every cup of chocolate milk counts.

She Never Had to Ask Twice

Someday, when that email shows up in her inbox, I hope she remembers.

She never had to ask twice.

That's the whole point of the tradition. Not grand gestures or perfect parenting. Just showing up, every single day, while she still wants me there. And putting it in writing so she'll know, eighteen years from now, that it was always true.