This week, my daughter turns five.
Five is the age of constant, joyful questions. Why is the sky blue? Why do people get sad? Why do we have to leave the party when we’re having fun? It is also the age of noticing — of seeing many things adults, in their rush, have long since learned to overlook or ignore.
My daughter notices everything. The flowers pushing through the dirt around city trees. The shape of buildings we pass without a second thought. The ever-growing stack of books in my office. A painting at the Museum of Modern Art or the Met that stops her in her tracks, not because she understands it, but because something in it feels worth her attention.
There are also our small, regular rituals: visits to local bookstores, where we have to always find something to bring home, and our “coffee” dates, where she orders steamed milk as if it were the most important thing in the world. The drives we take just to explore, sometimes ending up somewhere like Hershey, Pennsylvania — turning an ordinary day into something that feels like an adventure. And on Friday evenings for the Jewish Sabbath, we light candles together. My daughter with her mother cover their eyes, they move their hands in slow circles, and repeat the blessing. My daughter does not know the meaning of all the words, but she does know that the moment matters and that is enough.
I think, too, about the messages that will shape her. Not long ago, she stood beneath a line on a school wall: “you can be whoever you want to be.” It is a beautiful sentiment — one I’m grateful she will carry with her. I want her to dream, to imagine a life filled with authenticity and possibility.
I also hope she comes to see that a good life is not only about who you become, but about what you are called to do and who you are responsible to along the way. Freedom matters. But it is sustained — and made meaningful — by truth, by character and by the quiet obligations we carry toward one another.
She is curious and open. She is passionate in a way that is still unguarded. Watching her grow brings up the often shared idea that being a parent is bittersweet with time moving so quickly.
I’m reminded of something we too often forget: children are not purely blank slates waiting to be filled. In many ways, they are already closer to the truths we spend our adult lives trying to recover.
So what should I say to her?
I will start with this: hold on to your sense of wonder, your spark. There will be people who try to rush you forward — toward comparison with others, achievement, and habitual measures of performance and competition. They will offer quick answers to questions that deserve time. Resist that. The ability to pause, to look closely, to really see; that is rare — and it is essential. You already know how to do this. I hope the world never talks you out of it.
Be kind, but understand what kindness really means. You already have that instinct. You want to include others. You notice when someone is left out. Hold on to that, but pair it with strength. Kindness is not simply being agreeable. It is the courage to stand apart when something is wrong, to include someone who has been overlooked, to speak when needed.
Tell the truth. Not just when it is easy, but especially when it is hard. You will make mistakes. That is not the opposite of growing; it is how growing works. The world will offer easy answers and simple slogans. But real understanding requires listening, questioning and the humility to say, “I don’t know yet,” — for that inquisitiveness marks the beginning of wisdom.
Take responsibility — for yourself and for others. We live in a moment that emphasizes rights and self-expression. These matter. But they are not enough. A good life also depends on showing up, keeping promises and caring not just about what we are owed, but about what we owe. These lessons begin small. Over time, they become habits that make trust possible and allow a free society to endure.
Here is something even deeper. I hope you come to know that your life has meaning beyond what you achieve. As our Jewish faith teaches us, you are part of something larger than yourself; each person you encounter carries a dignity that is not earned and cannot be taken away. We try to teach this each week: in blessings over candles and wine, in stories told in the Bible on the Sabbath and retold before bed, in the way we mark time as sacred. Faith is not an abstraction. It is something lived, practiced and, if we are fortunate, passed on.
Finally, know this above all else: you are loved. Not because of what you achieve. Not because of what you become. But because of who you are.
I cannot make the world perfect for you. This is a wish that almost all parents have for their children but no parent earnestly can deliver. That is not the point, however. What I can do — and what I hope to do — is help you build the habits and convictions to meet the challenges of the world without losing the best of who you are.
Your curiosity. Your kindness. Your delight in small, simple and beautiful things — flowers pushing through the dirt as the spring approaches, a warm cup of “coffee” across the table, candle flames moving in the Friday evening air.
Hold on to those. Because if you do, even as the world grows louder, you will not only endure — you will help make that world better.