Dear Eliana,
By the time you read this, you'll probably be old enough to roll your eyes at how cheesy I sound. That's okay. I've earned the right to be a little dramatic. After all, you're my daughter — and you didn't exactly enter the world quietly.
The truth is… I never thought I'd be a father. Not because I didn't want to be — but because I didn't think I'd be enough. I didn't grow up with the best example of what a dad should look like. And I've made more mistakes than I can count. But the night your mom told me she was pregnant with you, something shifted.
I was scared, Eliana. Terrified, actually. I remember standing in my apartment after she walked out, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers. How could I be a father when I still didn't fully understand myself?
But then something happened.
You grew.
And so did I.
I went from panic to planning. From confusion to commitment. Suddenly, every part of my life had a new meaning. I wasn't just living for me anymore. I was living for you. Every beat of your tiny heart on that ultrasound was a wake-up call — and I haven't been the same since.
Your mom… she's something else. Strong in ways I don't think she even realizes. She carried you, protected you, even when she was scared too. Watching her become your mother made me fall in love with her all over again — in a deeper, quieter way.
I've seen her tired, messy, emotional, brave, fierce. And I've loved her through it all. She was already amazing before you came into our lives. But when she became your mom, she became unstoppable.
The day you were born? I've never cried like that before.
The second I heard you cry, everything inside me cracked open. Your tiny fingers, your soft cry, your perfect little face — I swear I'd never seen anything more beautiful. I held you in my arms and made a silent promise that I'll never stop showing up. Not for one second.
That promise still stands.
You'll grow up and have questions one day. Maybe even doubts. Life will confuse you, disappoint you, and shake you around. But I want you to know something that never changes:
You are loved.
Not for being perfect. Not for being smart or pretty or strong — though you're all those things. You're loved just because you exist. Just because you're mine.
You don't have to prove anything.
You don't have to earn it.
You are enough, exactly as you are.
If you ever wonder where you belong, I hope you remember this: You belong right here — in this family, in this heart, in this world.
If your heart breaks someday (and it will), I hope you run to me or your mom, not away. We won't always have the answers, but we'll never stop listening.
And if you ever feel like giving up, I want you to remember the story of how you came to be — how one unexpected night between two people who didn't have it all figured out… still turned into something real.
You, Eliana, are proof that beautiful things can grow in messy soil.
You were our beginning.
And in many ways, you still are.
I'm so proud to be your father.
There are things I hope you learn over time, little truths I had to figure out the hard way. So I'm writing them down here — just in case I'm not around to say them when you need them most.
First: It's okay to be scared.
Being brave doesn't mean being fearless. It means doing the thing anyway — even when your voice shakes or your knees feel weak. Your mom was terrified the night she found out about you. So was I. But we showed up anyway. That's what made us strong. That's what made us yours.
Second: Love isn't always loud.
Sometimes it's in the way someone remembers how you like your tea. Or how they hold your hand when you don't have the words. Your mom loves like that — quietly, fiercely. She'll never shout it from the rooftops, but it's in every late-night diaper change and every soft lullaby. Learn to recognize love in the little things.
Third: You don't need to have it all figured out.
I was a mess when I met your mom. And honestly? I still am, sometimes. Life isn't about perfection. It's about growth. You're allowed to change your mind. You're allowed to start over. As many times as you need to.
Fourth: You are not alone. Ever.
Even on the days it feels like the world is too heavy or like no one understands — come home. Call me. Call your mom. Call whoever your people are. We will always be your safety net.
Fifth — and maybe most important: You are enough.
On your best days and your worst ones. With messy hair and loud opinions. Whether you win or fail. You don't have to earn love. You already have it.
One night gave us a lifetime.
I hope when you're old enough to understand this letter, you'll smile and know that from the very beginning… you were wanted. You were chosen. You were celebrated.
And you always will be.
I love you, more than any words will ever explain.
– Dad