Darren Reese (2025)

27/10/2025

My one-year-old writing about our weekend…

My dada says it’s that time of year again.
When pumpkins glow on porches and Christmas songs sneak into our playlist.
When the air smells like cinnamon, and happiness starts spilling out of every corner.
This weekend was magic.
Momma and Nana put a Christmas tree in my bedroom! It’s covered in twinkly lights and this big, furry green guy they keep calling Grinchie.
He looks kind of funny, but I think he’s actually really sweet.
While they were decorating my room, Dada and Papa were outside climbing ladders and hanging lights — even in the rain!
I watched them through the window all weekend.
When they finished, Dada gave me a remote and said, “Go ahead, Hemi.”
So I pushed the button… and the whole house lit up!
Wow. Even better than the remote that turns on Frozen.
Then Daddy made a pumpkin pie, and the whole house smelled like cinnamon and cozy and home.
He says me and him are gonna cook a lot this time of year.
He even let me try my first sausage ball — and I think I might love them as much as he does.
The holidays are kind of mixing together right now — pumpkins and Christmas lights all at once — but I don’t mind one bit.
Dada wants to do everything, and I want to do it all with him.
He picked me up in the yard and we danced to Jingle Bell Rock.
The lights were so bright they made the pumpkins glow.
And I saw it — that little sparkle in his eyes.
I think I brought the magic back for him.
Or maybe he just remembered it never really left.
Because when he holds me — when my tiny hands grab his face and I press my cheek against his — I feel it too.
He whispers that these are the best days of his life, and even though I don’t understand all the words yet… I know what he means.
So if Dada wants to watch Home Alone while we carve pumpkins — that’s exactly what we’re gonna do.
Life is busy and the world is loud.
But here at home, we’ve got pumpkins and Christmas lights — and a kind of love that glows even brighter.
Dada says that’s all we need for happiness.
And when I look up at him through the twinkle lights… I believe him.

24/10/2025

My one-year old writes about our bedtime routine…

People say Daddy should put me in my crib at the same time every night. That I need a routine.

But my daddy doesn’t do that, and that’s just fine by me.

Every night he gets me into my cozy pajamas and he scoops me up in his arms.
We go upstairs and turn on Frozen.
Anna starts singing, and I start bouncing and singing along.

I climb all over Daddy like he’s my jungle gym.
I grab his nose and tug his ears and impress him by naming all the parts of his face.
Then I grab his cheeks and pull him toward my face and give him big squeezes.

I hold his face in my tiny hands,
like I’m saying, “Hey… you’re my person.”
And he just melts. Every. Single. Time.

People say I should fall asleep in my crib.
But Daddy’s arms feel like forever.
Even when they’re tired.
Even when he should probably be doing something else.
He stays.
Like he knows this won’t last forever.

This is the only time we get all day.
Tomorrow the world gets loud again —
mornings and work and all the things that take him away.
Bedtime is my chance to get to know him,
to know who my safe place is.

Someday, I’ll be too big to fall asleep in his arms.
I’ll run off with my backpack or my friends,
and he’ll stand in the doorway remembering these nights —

He’ll walk past a little pink blanket folded in a drawer,
or hear Let It Go around Christmas time,
and he’ll stop —
because for just a second, he’ll hear me again.
The way I said “Dada” in the dark, just to be sure.

But that’s later.
Tonight, I’m still his little girl.
And he’s still my whole world.

So thank you, Daddy —
for breaking the rules,
for staying up too late,
for memorizing the sound of me before I’m gone.

Bedtime is my favorite part of the day.
Don’t blink.

— Love, Hemi 🌙

15/10/2025

What version of me will my daughter remember when I’m gone? Not just the one frozen in photographs — smiling on sunny days, holding her in my lap, standing in the field on a picture perfect day. But the version that lives inside her heart. The one that shaped how she sees men, how she defines love, how she carries herself when life gets heavy.

One day, someone will say, “You’re just like your dad.” Will that make her proud? Will she smile and say, “He was always there. He showed up. He made ordinary moments feel special.”

I don’t need her to remember me as perfect — because I’m not. But I hope she remembers that I tried.
That I worked hard, loved deep, laughed often.
That I didn’t complain or look for pity.
That I carried the weight of the world quietly so she could grow freely.
That I stood strong even when I felt small.

Children don’t become who we tell them to be, they become who they watched us be.

And if one day she hears, “You remind me of your dad,” I hope it makes her stand a little taller, feel a little stronger, and know that her foundation is solid.

If that’s the legacy I leave behind, that’ll be enough.

10/10/2025

For the past couple of months, Hemingway and I have had our own little Friday morning ritual — breakfast together, just the two of us, before heading to the babysitter. No matter how hectic the week’s been or what I have to do that day, that one hour has become sacred. On the surface, it’s just breakfast, but it’s turned into one of the sweetest rhythms of our week.

For her, it’s not really about the food… although the girl loves her biscuits and gravy. It’s about being together. It’s about her learning that no matter how busy life gets, there’s always a time when Dad slows down just for her. She watches everything — how I talk to the staff, say “thank you,” put my phone down, and really see her. She’s learning what love looks like when it’s present, patient, and real.

She won’t remember the exact mornings — the spilled orange juice, the gravy faces, sneaking a sip of sweet tea— but I hope she carries the feeling of them. The comfort of knowing she mattered enough for time to stop. What started as a quick breakfast stop has turned into something bigger: a tiny weekly reminder that life’s best moments are rarely fancy… they’re found somewhere between a plate of biscuits and the sound of a little girl giggling across the table.

18/09/2025

Ending the day with a corn dog at 8kft ⛰️

17/09/2025

Ann Arbor + was a good time ⚔️💙🧡 appreciate making me feel like part of the crew and always feeding me uncrustables 🙏🏽

16/09/2025

Joyeux troisième anniversaire, mon amour ❤️

14/09/2025

Soaking up this season of life ⛳️🫶🏽

31/07/2025

🎞️ Summer on film

I’ve spent my entire life chasing the “perfect photos” … always trying to be in focus, perfectly exposed, editing for hours…

But here lately, I’ve been carrying around a disposable like I did when I was a kid, and that little plastic camera reminds me of when I first fell in love with taking photos

No settings to obsess over. No editing to plan. No screen to check.

Just a click.

And in that click, there’s imperfection. Blur. Grain. A thumb in the corner. A crooked horizon. But also—realness. The kind you can’t stage.

When I was a kid, film was magic. My mom gave me her old film camera when I was young, and I was hooked. Disposable cameras were these mysterious, clicky time machines. You had no idea what you captured until you picked up that envelope of glossy prints days later. It wasn’t about getting it perfect—it was about preserving something real.

And now, as a dad, a husband, a son, I find myself craving that same simplicity. Family moments don’t need to be curated or corrected. They need to be remembered. Grainy, slightly off-center, eyes-squinting-into-the-sun remembered. Disposable cameras slow me down. They make me watch instead of tweak. They remind me to be present instead of perfect.

So when we’re playing in the yard or traveling or celebrating, I’m reaching for the camera that doesn’t let me overthink. I frame it, make sure my finger isn’t covering the viewfinder, click and wind. And I let the moment live on—exactly as it was.

29/07/2025

I took our one-year-old to the babysitter today for the first time since the spring. She’s a totally different person and can now walk to the door and watch me as I leave. Here’s a note she wrote to me about this moment.

Dear Dada,
Today, when you left me at Gigi’s, the world felt a little too big.
You kissed my cheek and whispered, “Have the best day.”
But the second the door closed behind you… everything inside me reached for you.
I waddled as fast as my little legs could carry me.

By the time I got to the door, you were almost gone.
I pressed my face against the glass as hard as I could, like maybe—just maybe—if I wished hard enough, it would disappear and I could reach you.
But the glass stayed.
And you got smaller.
And then smaller still.
Until you turned back. Just once.
And I held my breath.

Because Dada, I needed that more than you’ll ever know.
It told me that you didn’t want to leave me either.
That you saw me.
That I mattered.

I know Gigi is soft and warm and full of love.
I know she lets me chew on the remote and gives me snacks and sings silly songs.
But she isn’t you.

I know you always come back.
I know you’re never really far.
But baby hearts don’t understand clocks, or promises, or grown-up reasons for walking away.
In this moment—this very real, baby-feelings-are-overwhelming moment—all it knows is that you’re gone, and I want you back.

I’m never ready for you to go.
And even when I’m not in your arms, I’m still holding on.
You are my person, and I always want to be wherever you are.

So promise me something, Daddy…
Promise me you’ll always look back one more time.
Even when I’m too grown to press my face to the glass…
Even when I don’t yell for you anymore…
Even when I say, “I’m fine, Dad,” but you know I’m really not.

Because inside, I’m still going to be your little girl…
Watching you go.
Wishing you’d stay.
And loving you with everything I have.

Always,
Hemingway

27/07/2025

A letter from my one-year-old when she sees these pictures 20 years from now…

Dad,

I was packing up some boxes from school and came across that album I hadn’t opened in years—the one Momma always filled with sweet little notes, like time capsules waiting for me to find.

Then I saw these.

One-year-old me, soaked in summer sun, double-fisting watermelon like life was only meant to taste that sweet! I’m sure Momma insisted on the bow, but it gives me a lot of personality, huh?

You remember that day. I know you do, Dad.

At first, I laughed. I looked so happy— alive in a way I could feel.

But then the tears came.

The kind that sneak up from deep down and don’t ask permission. Because suddenly I remembered…

Not that exact day, but the feeling.

Like magic lived around every corner.
 Like if I cried, Momma would come.
 Like if I fell, you’d pick me up and hold my hand.
 Like if I was scared, Nash would curl up beside me in the backyard and be my little bodyguard.

I remembered being that girl—your little girl—and I miss her so much.

Back then, life was simple. But you made it special. You didn’t wait for the world to give me magic—you made it happen, right there in the ordinary.

And now I’m older… and the world is loud… and love sometimes feels like something you earn instead of something you wake up to.

But you knew that, didn’t you?

That’s why you held me close. Why you laid with me long after I fell asleep. Why your voice and your eyes always felt like safety.

You knew those moments wouldn’t last. That one day we’d look back, close our eyes, and give anything for just one more.

And that’s where I am today.

If you ever wonder if you did enough, daddy… you did.

You gave me a place where I mattered. Where I was seen. Where joy lived from morning to night. A love I don’t have to remember—I feel it in my bones.

You didn’t just raise me…you built me.

And when life gets too loud, I go back to that barefoot little girl in her strawberry swimsuit on the back porch, wrapped in love and a summer that tasted like watermelon and heaven.

Forever your little girl, Hemingway

19/07/2025

Wishing the happiest of birthdays to our 👸🏻

Darren Reese