My Dear Children,
I have spent my entire life trying to get back home.
When I was eighteen, I joined the Marines and left behind everything familiar—my town, my friends, the comfort of routine, and the small but sacred things that tether us to a sense of belonging. I thought I was running toward something: honor, purpose, a future I could be proud of. And in many ways, I was. But almost immediately, I realized something deeper. I was also running away.
I didn’t have the words for it then, but I do now. I was running from pain, from brokenness, from a version of myself I didn’t want to become. But even in all that running—through deserts, over oceans, from one continent to the next—I was really just trying to find my way back home.
Not the physical place, necessarily. Not just the house or the street. But the feeling. The warmth. The knowing.
When I left the military and entered the next chapter of my life, that longing didn’t disappear. I worked across cities and states, with long days and even longer nights, trying to build something meaningful. And still, at the end of each week, I found myself counting down the hours until I could get back home. Back to where my heart was. Back to where my joy lived. Back to where love wasn't something you had to prove—it just was.
And that’s why I’m writing you this letter. Because I want you to know that home isn’t something you need to find. It’s something you already have. It’s something we’ve built together, quietly and faithfully, in the way we love each other, in the way we show up, in the way we forgive, and in the way we hold space for one another—exactly as we are.
You will always have a home with me.
No matter where life takes you.
No matter what decisions you make.
No matter the mistakes, the triumphs, the seasons of clarity or confusion—you will always have a place where you belong.
Home is not defined by success or perfection. It’s not conditional. It doesn’t disappear when things get hard or when you wander off your path. Home is a light in the window. It’s a warm meal on a cold night. It’s a voice that says, “You’re safe now. You’re loved. You can rest.”
That’s what I want to be for you, always. A steady light. A place to land.
And if the world ever feels too big, too loud, too lonely… if you ever lose your way, or just need to remember who you are—I will come to you.
"But I'da flipped every mattress, every rock and desert cactus
Owned a collection of maps
And followed my kids to the edge of the atlas."
— Marshall Mathers (Eminem)
There is no distance too far, no situation too complicated, no mistake too big. If you need me—anywhere in the world, for any reason at all—I will be there. No questions asked. You call, I come. That’s the deal. That’s what it means to be your dad.
You are my heart. You are my home.
So go out into the world. Live boldly. Love deeply. Build something meaningful. Make a mess of it all, if you must. Just don’t ever wonder if you still belong.
You do. You always will.
Home will be waiting. I will be waiting.
And you will always be welcome.
With all my love, always,
Dad
If this letter reminded you of someone—or somewhere—that still holds your heart, send it their way. Let them know they’re home, too.
And if these letters speak to you, if they help you see the world or yourself a little more clearly, I’d love for you to stick around. Follow or subscribe on Substack, Apple Podcasts or Spotify, and I’ll keep showing up here every week with reflections that I hope make your day a little better and your heart a little fuller.
I’ll be back next Monday with another letter. Until then—be kind, stay present, and remember: home isn’t a place—it’s the people who love you no matter what.
And that love? It’s forever.
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