An open letter to my son, Iron Will, on the occasion of his sixth birthday
Dear Will,
Six years ago, you came into this world and immediately, without effort, began making it better. That's just who you are.
There are people who, had they known you were coming, would have told us your life was a tragedy in the making. That an extra chromosome was a reason for grief. That the hardest road wasn't worth walking.
And they would have been wrong. Completely, embarrassingly, irreversibly wrong.
Not because your road has been easy — it hasn't always been. Not because you haven't had to work for things that come effortlessly to other kids. You have. But because the measure of a life isn't the absence of difficulty. It's the presence of love. And Will, you have never, not for one single day, been without it.
You were made in the image and likeness of God. Full stop. Not partially. Not conditionally. Not pending review. That truth was written into you before the foundation of the world, and no diagnosis, no cultural narrative, no fleeting opinion posted to the internet has the power to edit it.
"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” – Psalm 139:13–14
That's you, son. Knitted together. On purpose. With intention. By a God who doesn't make mistakes and doesn't deal in accidents.
What the world calls a burden, we call a blessing. What the world calls a limitation, we call a lens, because you see things the rest of us miss. You love without suspicion. You forgive without keeping score. You show up with your whole heart, every single time, and somehow you make the people around you want to do the same. I've watched grown men — veterans, warriors — go soft at the edges because of you. That's not weakness. That's the strength of presence.
Your mother and I didn't just accept you. We chose you, the way every parent chooses their child, and we would choose you a thousand times over. Your brothers and sister would too. Each of them loves you in their own way, and each of their lives is richer because you are in it. We may not have known it before you were born, but this family was waiting for you to complete it.
You are Iron Will. We gave you that nickname the day you were born, and six years later, you've more than earned it. Iron is what's in you. We've watched you do the hard work, log the therapy hours, learn the things people said you couldn't, and do it all with a grin that makes the whole room shift. That's not inspiration. That's character. Your character.
So here's what I want you to know on your sixth birthday, son: this world needs you in it. Not despite who you are — because of who you are. The world gets better, more honest, more human, more whole when people like you are present in it. Every voice that has ever suggested otherwise was simply wrong about what makes a life worth living.
I will spend whatever days God gives me making sure you know that. Making sure the world knows that. And on days when the world gets loud and confused about your worth — and some days it will — your dad will be right here. Immovable.
Happy sixth birthday, Iron Will.
I love you more than words have ever been built to convey.
— Dad
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