This letter has been something that I have started and never followed through with. Something that I have scribbled down on discarded notebook paper and then crumpled up and thrown away. Something that I have typed and immediately deleted. There may be one stuffed in an envelope that I addressed to you and then shoved in a drawer somewhere. There may be another covered with tear stains and black mascara.

There are many versions. I could be forgetting some, but that doesn't matter. What matters is what they have in common.

All of these letters have anger embedded into the pages. They have sadness and frustration pushed into the spaces between each word. They have hope and desperation still circulating inside old, smudged ink and Times New Roman font.

But I suppose this letter is different. This letter is me letting go. This letter is more of a thank you and goodbye than anything else. This letter is not only for you, but for myself, too.

I'm sure you remember, Dad, but let me refresh your memory just in case you don't: in the early morning of June 18, 1998, I was born prematurely by emergency cesarean section, weighing only one pound, 12 ounces. Shortly after that, I had a bleed in my brain (a stroke) that would ultimately end up changing my life and the lives around me forever (as you know, of course — none of this was what you had in mind). I was placed in an incubator and hooked up to various machines, including a ventilator tube that was pushed down my throat to keep me breathing. My doctor didn't have much hope that I would survive, so my grandparents called for a priest. I was to be baptized before I passed away. My grandparents had to rush my mother to give me a name — and although she was slightly loopy and could barely form a coherent sentence thanks to the anesthetics, she hurriedly slurred out my name and my grandmother gave it to the priest, who baptized me with a dropper and was then on his way.

Fortunately, I survived and was released from the hospital in October, the month I was supposed to be delivered. Then, when I was about 18 months old, I was diagnosed with a mild case of spastic hemiplegic diplegic cerebral palsy. (Cerebral palsy is a brain disorder that affects movement, muscle tone and coordination. I was lucky. The stroke affected the left side of my body — my left side is weaker than my right — and I use crutches to walk. In the more severe cases of CP, individuals could be wheelchair bound, unable to move, speak, or feed themselves.) There were telltale signs that something was amiss with me, of course — the most prominent one being the way that, even when I should have been able to, I couldn't crawl or roll over. I started physical and occupational therapy as soon as possible. When I was four years old, I started making trips to Minneapolis, Minnesota for checkups at the Shriners Hospital for Children. When I was five years old, I had my first surgery — I've had eight: one on my back, three on my feet, two on my hips, and two on my knees. You only came to one of them.

When I was six years old, you left.

I want to thank you for it. Even though what came after was years of court dates being set, tears being shed, panic attacks bruising my heart and sending spikes of cold air through my lungs, voices volleying loudly across walls, and my major anxiety and depression diagnoses. If none of this would have occurred, I wouldn't be who I am. I don't want to think about who I could've been.

Now I am strong. I always was, but I never believed it. Now I can say with conviction that I am strong. I am kind. I believe in spreading kindness and spreading love. I believe in forgiveness. I believe in second chances. I believe that a smile or two or three can make someone's day. I believe that sometimes it is the smallest things, the smallest gestures, that make the greatest impact. I believe in choice. I believe that every single choice we make defines the path we take.

Each of us has had times where our path has become rocky and muddy and full of obstacles that have caused us to bleed and bruise. Some obstacles that have left us shivering, with scars either carved into our skin or cut deep within. But I believe that we choose. We have the power to decide whether or not these struggles will define who we are. I know that sometimes it feels like we're carrying our struggles with us on our shoulders (along with our regrets) — but you choose. You choose whether to shrug those struggles off and stand tall or let the weight of all of it bring you down. You won't ever get to live if you're lying on the ground.

(With that being said, know that we all have bad days. Nobody is perfect. It's okay not to be okay. It's OKAY to ask for help. You don't have to do it all on your own. Remember to take care of yourself FOR yourself. I know that it's hard sometimes — letting go takes time. Don't forget that you matter. How you feel matters. Know that you are not alone.)

So I suppose that my question to you, Dad, is: what do you choose?