My life hasn’t been easy. If you’ve read my blog or my book, that’s probably apparent—but that’s not why I write. Not entirely, at least.

I knew everything about my dad. He raised me by himself, and he was my best friend, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. Lately, though, I’ve come to a stark realization: my kids don’t really know anything about my past. My dad died long before they were born, my mom and I were never close, and they’ve only met members of my extended family for an hour or two, a handful of times in their lives.

They know the broad strokes. They know I was married when I was younger, and they know she passed away. They know I’m sober, and have been for a long time—my older kids barely remember me drinking. But beyond those milestones, they don’t know much about the journey in between.

They don’t know how I went from a smiling, hopeful kid to an adult who grinds through two or three jobs, yet still makes it a priority to sit down at the dinner table with them every single night. They don’t fully understand why I put so much effort into making sure we talk, or why I persistently bug them about their day. And that’s okay. Right now, they don’t need to.

But someday, they might want to know. And I might not be here to tell them.

So, I write. I blog, I post, and I publish. Maybe it will help a stranger along the way—and I’m incredibly grateful for the feedback from people who say it has. But at the end of the day, these words are a time capsule. It’s all right here for my kids ‌whenever they are ready to look.