Senior Year

It feels like just yesterday we were all standing outside, putting you on the bus for that very first day of school. So many pictures, so many memories. The hustle and bustle of getting you ready, us ready, with grandparents, aunts, and uncles all coming by to wish you well.

And now, today, you left at 7 a.m., driving yourself to school. No crowd, no fanfare. Our group was cut last year, and that loss still runs deep. The house was quieter. Just another Monday morning—except it wasn’t. This is senior year. Our little dancer’s last year of high school.

The speed of it all is staggering. How quickly these years have flown. Memories flash through my mind like a reel, pulsing, unstoppable. I think back to my own senior year, how I got lazy when I should have gotten busy. I don’t remember my first day as clearly as I should, but I remember enough to know it was good, though not great.

Now I see her stepping into this season, and everything comes at once. It’s like a midlife review—seeing her life, seeing mine, both layered together. I found old clips from my father’s phone, small pieces of the good times he thought were worth recording. They make me realize how little we actually carry with us or keep. These quiet times of reflection cut deep, like a single raindrop that swells into a flood of emotions. I brace myself against its raw power, but it breaks over me and carries me away in the current.

I’ve made peace with that. We’re not meant to remember everything in crystal detail. If we did, we’d never be able to step into a new day. Life only gives us enough to build from, enough to grow. Every moment is preserved somewhere, even if not consciously. We are part of the endless dance of life—Lila. None of it is wasted.

That’s why nostalgia is tricky. We try to hold on to things as if they’ll slip away, but nothing is really lost. I believe when our time here ends, we’ll move differently, through time and memory, able to revisit, replay, relive whenever we want. Which means the more important task is simply this: create memories worth reliving. Push when you can, because you always can.

Watching my kids in these formative years makes me remember how unsteady I was back then. I wish I could hand them the confidence I have now, the freedom from fear. At the time, everything felt so heavy, as if one wrong move mattered forever. But now I see it didn’t. Fear was wasted energy. I wish they could feel that already. Maybe they can’t. Maybe it’s just part of the process, like any hero making their way into the world. It’s a gift that can’t be bestowed, only earned through the walk of life.

What I do know is this: my little girl is a senior. My baby is grown. My wife feels it deeply; I do too. But I’m steadied by the truth that every moment counts, that nothing disappears, and that all of it is worth carrying forward. This year will go quickly, but it will not be wasted. It will be lived, and it will be remembered.

Olivia, I hope you feel the weight of this year, but not as a burden. I hope you see it as a gift. Try new things. Take chances. Don’t let fear hold you back. The truth is, it doesn’t matter if everything works out perfectly. What matters is that you live it fully. You must fail in order to succeed, and I hope you fail gloriously, then rise again with the courage I know you have to keep moving forward.

You are ready for this moment. You are stepping into the next part of your life, and I couldn’t be prouder. Every day ahead of you is another memory in the making, another chapter worth writing. So live it in a way that makes you smile when you look back. We’ll be smiling too, every step of the way. Forever and always your biggest fans.