My son turns four years old this week.

And if I'm being honest, I don't know where the time went.

Everyone says this, and I spent most of my life rolling my eyes at it, but my goodness, it goes by fast. With parenting, perhaps more so than most things in life, the days are very long but the years are painfully short.

Last year, I started a practice of writing him a letter each year on his birthday.

He can't read them (yet), but my hope is that they serve as something of a compass for his journey. Whether I'm here or gone, I hope that they guide him in the direction of a fulfilling life.

I know I can't walk the path for him, but maybe I can shine a bit of light to give him confidence along the way.

Here is my open letter to my son on his 4th birthday...

To my dearest son Roman,

Today, I want to tell you three stories about your life.

The first story is about struggle.

You don't know this, but your mother and I weren't sure we would be able to have you. We struggled, for two years, to bring you into this world. It was a quiet, lonely, painful period.

It came at a time in my life when I really wasn't sure what the path looked like.

By early 2021, I had made the decision to leave my investing job so that we could move back east to live closer to our families. I figured I'd be able to get a new job in the industry closer to home. But after a string of rejections and failed interviews, I woke up one morning with a terrible feeling of dread.

I'd made a mistake. I'd taken the leap from a good path, but now, I saw nothing but emptiness before me. Between my career, our move, and our failed attempts to bring a new life into the world, there was so much uncertainty. Just a complete lack of clarity.

In the darkness of that moment, I remembered a lesson from an old baseball coach. When you'd find yourself in a tough spot in a game, he'd always call out a simple saying:

“You’re one pitch away!”

So, I focused on the next pitch. I kept waking up. Showing up. Doing something.

The wall broke through. Clarity came shining through. We made the move to the east coast. I defined a new path.

And most importantly, two weeks after getting into our new home, we found out that your Mama was pregnant with you, our son.

When I reflect on those dark months, I'm grateful for them. Because they taught me that the most meaningful things in life exist on the other side of some painful struggle.

That's precisely what makes them so meaningful in the end. You know what you had to endure to bring them to life. In our case, quite literally.

Don't shy away from the struggle. Don't try to avoid it. Lean into it.

The struggle of the dark amplifies the joy of the light.

The second story is about success.

Most of my life, I measured success the way the world told me to.

Money. Achievement. Status. Fancy things. Whatever.

It was a default definition that was never my own, but I chased it nonetheless. All the while convincing myself that my fulfillment, my feeling of enoughness was on the other side of some thing.

I'd get those things and wonder why I never felt successful.

It all came together during a single moment on my book tour.

My Dad, your grandfather, sat in the front row at all of the events. At one event, he was asked how he felt seeing me up on stage.

His response:

"I'm proud that he's becoming the man he wants to be."

The power in those words stopped me in my tracks. Not the man that he wants me to be, but the man that I want to be.

This was the moment I learned a truth:

Real success isn't being the person someone else thinks you should be. Real success is becoming the person you want to be.

That path is yours. It won't always be well lit. But you won't walk it alone.

My father believed in me before I believed in myself. That belief silently gave me permission to become the person I wanted to be. It's the greatest gift I have ever received—and one I promise I'll pass down to you.

There's an old African proverb I love:

"Walk like you have 4,000 ancestors behind you."

Stand tall, Roman. You have an army at your back.

The last story is about love.

For the first 31 years of my life, I didn't really know what that word meant. I thought I did. I mean, I loved people. First, my parents and my sister, then my best friends, and eventually, my wife. And I felt loved by them.

But the day you were born, I realized how little I really understood about that word. It was like the love I knew was a black and white movie from the past. And suddenly, an explosion of color entered the frame. Rich. Deep. Textured. Something so pure. So vibrant. So, different.

Holding you for the first time, I had a profound sensation:

I spent the first 31 years of my life trying to find the meaning of all of this.

And now, it was staring right back at me.

But my story about love isn't about me or my love for you (which you will never have to question). My story about love is about your mother, or Mama to you, who loves you more than anyone else in the entire world.

I first noticed it in the hospital after you were born. The way she would adjust you ever so gently to make sure you were comfortable. I've seen it every single day of your life since. It takes many forms. As patience. As energy. As touch. As selflessness. It's almost imperceptible at times. Abundantly clear at others.

But always, always there.

It was her love for you that taught me about love. What it really means. What it really looks like. In some ways, it gave me permission to give and receive love with that same depth.

So, without you, I would never have known real love.

There is nothing like a mother's love. It's a love you may never understand, but one you have a duty to respect.

There may come a time when I'm not here. If that ever happens, I need you to take care of your Mama. I need you to cherish her, just as she cherishes you.

If you keep her close to your heart, you'll always be ok.

I'll close with a confession:

I spent most of my 20s thinking I didn’t want kids. I thought it was a distraction.

Well, last month, I was tucking you into bed when you looked at me, with zero hesitation, and said, “Dada, you’re my hero.”

I'm not exaggerating when I say it was the best moment of my life. One I'll think about until my dying day. Not the books. Not the businesses. Not the investments. That.

I'm glad my definition of success changed. This version is so much better.

I love you, Roman. Happy Birthday.

Your Dada