Dear Grace, Patrick, and Maggie,
Today marks your 23rd birthday—which means I’ve now spent 24 years as a father. How that’s possible, I’m not quite sure, because in my head I’m still 25.
But it’s true: 23 years ago, you came into the world nine weeks early and have been throwing curveballs at me ever since. I mean that in the best possible way.
You might know that some of my clearest insights come during my morning runs. This one hit me this morning— a cold, dark morning—while I was out there arguing with myself: “It’s dark, Mike. Shouldn’t we turn back?” and “Hey big fella, remember that bum knee? PT isn’t a suggestion.” Sometimes I listen to the voices in my head. Sometimes I don’t. If I listened to them all the time, I’d be in a lot more trouble than I typically find myself in.
Anyway, as I ran, I started reflecting on what I’ve learned from being your dad—lessons I might never have picked up if I hadn’t become the father of triplets at 27. (Which, while not young by 1800s standards, is definitely something of an outlier in today’s day and age.)
Here’s what I know now that I didn’t know then:
You don’t know what you’re made of until you’re tested.
When you were babies, I’d push you in that big tandem triplet stroller and people would stop me constantly. “Are those triplets?” they’d ask, as if I might say, “Nope, just collecting babies for fun.” The follow-up was often, “Better you than me!”—I gave those people an honorary degree in Assholery 101 (you grandfather would call them Club Members). What club you might ask? The A-Hole club!
Over the years I’ve been asked countless times if it is hard having triplets. Yes, it is hard. But that’s the point. We never really know what we’re capable of until life turns up the volume. Going from zero to three babies in under three minutes broke me open—but it also revealed what was inside. I was stronger, more patient, more determined than I ever realized. That kind of transformation only comes through fire. Just ask the Mockingjay.
Life isn’t meant to be easy.
Somewhere along the line, we were sold a lie—that if we just do everything “right,” life will be smooth. That’s not how it works.
When you were little, I’d think, Things will be easier when they can just… talk, walk, feed themselves, go to the bathroom alone. But the truth is, every phase has its challenges. Smaller kids, smaller worries. Bigger kids, bigger worries. The milestones shift, but the difficulty never vanishes—it just evolves.
As a runner, I know that progress only happens when I deliberately alternate the easy with the hard. Same with parenting. We don’t grow when things are easy. We get stronger when life pushes back.
With struggle comes heartbreak.
In running, there are days when you hit your stride and days when you hit the wall. Parenting’s no different. I’ve had my best and worst performances as a dad—and sometimes they were only moments apart.
Take the year you had to buy your own birthday cake. (Pretty sure it was during the pandemic, but even so… ouch.) I’ve tried to be the best dad I can be, but I’ve missed the mark more than once. And those moments? They hurt. But they’re also reminders that I’m human. And that you are human. And that we’re all learning—especially through the messy stuff.
The path to forgiveness.
Uncle Greg had a blunt phrase: “Kids do stupid shit.” And he was right. (Adults do too—just with bigger consequences.)
Case in point: when I was a kid, my parents were throwing a fancy dinner party and had records playing on our Hi-Fi. For reasons still unknown to anyone, I walked into the smoky room with a glass of chocolate milk and poured it directly into the stereo system. Why? No clue. But I remember doing it—and I remember my parents forgiving me.
You’ve had your moments too. And I’ve learned to balance discipline with grace, consequences with compassion. Forgiveness is rooted in empathy—and empathy comes from experience.
Empathy is everything.
Last night at dinner, Gracie said, “Dad, you’re highly empathic.” It was the nicest thing I heard all day.
Empathy isn’t sympathy. It’s feeling with someone—because you’ve been there. And I’ve been there.
When you were born, there was no paternity leave. I had ten vacation days. Five for your birth, five for when you came home from the NICU. You were all under five pounds, needed to eat every three hours, and it took 30 minutes to feed each of you. I was basically a sleep-deprived zombie in khakis at work.
One day, my manager—who didn’t have kids at the time—called me into a conference room to scold me for being “off my game.” I thought she was going to ask how she could support me. Instead, I got a warning. A year later, after she had her first child, she was singing a different tune.
That experience taught me something I’ll never forget: we have no idea what someone else is going through. So be kind. Lead with empathy. Assume less. Listen more.
You can do hard things.
These lessons—resilience, forgiveness, empathy—they laid the groundwork for one of the most important truths I’ve learned.
When your uncle Greg was dying, I held his hand through his final moments. I did the same with your grandmother not long after. These were the hardest, most sacred moments of my life. But I stayed. I didn’t run. I showed up. I “brought the soup” to paraphrase the speaker at Patrick’s graduation.
And I know now—I could do that because life had already built the strength inside me. Strength that came from parenting, from struggle, from love. You’ll have moments like that, too. You’ll be asked to show up in ways you didn’t expect. And you will.
Because you can do hard things.
The importance of being there.
Let me tell you something about siblings.
They’ll drive you nuts. You’ll argue. You’ll get on each other’s nerves. You’ll wonder how it’s possible you came from the same parents.
But when the chips are down, nothing compares to having your siblings at your side. Trust me on this: you’ll have moments in life when you need them—not just want them, need them.
Don’t let pride or distance or petty stuff get in the way. Be there for each other. Show up. They will be your greatest cheerleaders when it counts most. No one else will quite understand you the way they do—and that’s a gift worth protecting. Just ask your Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Mia. Your siblings will be your Ride or Die.
Sometimes your “enemies” are your greatest teachers.
Life’s antagonists—the people who challenge you, frustrate you, rub you the wrong way—can be your greatest teachers.
Would we care about Harry Potter without Voldemort? Luke without Vader? Daniel LaRusso without Johnny Lawrence (Or vice versa depending on your point of view)?
It’s the tension that sharpens us. It’s the friction that shapes us. And sometimes, those “villains” are just mirrors—showing us parts of ourselves we need to confront. So, love your enemies. Thank them. Hell, even pray for them. They bestow upon you gifts that are immeasurable in value.
Happy birthday, my power trio. I love you more than words could ever capture. You’ve taught me more in 23 years than I learned in the 27 before you arrived. Keep growing. Keep stumbling. Keep showing up—for yourselves and for each other. May your winning streak never end.
Fajer
