An Apology to my Daughter

My dearest daughter,

As I look down the throat of 68, it’s a number that feels heavier than I ever expected it would. It’s not because of the aches in my knees or the meds my doctors have obliged me to take every morning, but because of the quiet realization that most of my building is done, and most of your living is still ahead of you. Your mother and I are looking towards retirement and travel, while you and your partner are struggling to build a life.

And I owe you both an apology for the world my generation is handing to yours. Because I recognize that the home you’re trying to build feels like it’s on a foundation of quicksand.

When I was thirty like you, I believed in progress the way you believe in gravity. It just seemed inevitable. We assumed things would get better because they always had. The economy would grow. Technology would fix what we broke. The climate would somehow steady itself. Democracy would sort out its own rough patches. We treated the future like a savings account we could keep withdrawing from without ever checking the balance.

We were wrong.

We knew about the warming oceans and the thinning ice caps, but we argued about costs instead of consequences. We knew about debt—national and personal—but we liked the convenience of now more than the discipline of later. We watched politics become more like professional wrestling than public service and told ourselves it was just noise. We let cynicism pass for wisdom. We mistook comfort for stability.

And in all of that, we left you rising housing prices, student debt, political division that feels personal, and a planet that runs a little hotter every year. And now that the president has ignored decades of science and enabled limitless amounts of greenhouse gases to pour into the air, it will only get worse.

It’s inevitable.

I’m sorry for the nights you’ve lain awake wondering whether you’ll ever be able to afford a home. I’m sorry that so many in your generation feel hopeless, and that the idea of ever having children of your own has become an issue beyond reach. I’m sorry for the background anxiety that hums in your generation like a refrigerator that never shuts off—the climate reports, the layoffs, the news alerts that make your phone vibrate with dread. I’m sorry that “retirement” of your own feels mythical to you, and that “security” sounds like something from an old brochure.

But I need you to know something else too - we did not set out to fail you. We wanted to change the world for the better; to stop war, pay attention to protecting the global environment, and leave things better than we had found them.

But it’s like John Lennon said; “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Because while we aspired to these noble causes, most of us were also busy raising children, paying mortgages, and caring for our own aging parents. We voted when we could. We recycled. We tried to be decent. We loved you fiercely. We simply underestimated how fragile systems can be when too many people assume someone else will fix them.

That’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation.

If I could go back to being 25, I would vote as I did but get more involved in election campaigns. I would donate to more candidates and causes I believed in, instead of always thinking “Charity begins at home.”

And I would speak up sooner in conversations where silence was easier. I would push harder for long-term thinking, even when it wasn’t popular. I would measure “success” less by quarterly returns and more by generational returns.

There were so many meetings I wanted to attend but didn’t because I was tired or wanted to hang out with you and your mom. Please don’t get me wrong; I wouldn’t trade a minute with you both for anything.

But they say that if something is important, you’ll find the time. And I realize now that I didn’t try hard enough to help in some small way. Why didn’t I write that extra letter to the newspaper? Why didn’t I challenge my representative’s vote or thinking process?

But I can’t go back.

What I can do is tell you this: you are stronger than we were at your age. You are more informed. More connected. Less willing to accept lazy answers. You and your friends talk openly about mental health, about equity, about sustainability. You question systems instead of inheriting them blindly. And that matters – a LOT!

The world you are inheriting is messy, but it is not doomed. Perhaps most importantly, you are not powerless in it.

Progress has never been a straight line. It has always been a tug-of-war between comfort and courage. Your generation has more tools than we ever did—technology that can mobilize millions in just a few hours, data that reveals what used to stay hidden, voices that refuse to be sidelined.

And here is the part I hope you carry with you: every generation thinks it’s leaving the next one a disaster. And yet, somehow, the next generation builds something new out of the rubble and the leftovers.

I believe you and your friends will do the same thing.

I am sorry for what my generation – the boomers who were going to fix the world – wasn’t actually able to fix. I am proud of what you are trying to build. And I promise you this—I’m not done yet. Sixty-eight isn’t a closing chapter; just a later one. I will vote with you. March with you if my knees allow. Listen when you tell me we missed something. Change my mind when you show me better evidence.

The world may not be as stable as we promised you…but you are more capable than you realize.

And if there is one thing my generation did right, it was raising yours to be thoughtful, resilient, smart, talented, and brave.

You go, girl! Your mom and I have your back.

With love, humility, and hope,

Dad