Today is my daughter Heidi’s birthday.

When Heidi was born, the doctors handed her to me and immediately rolled my wife into surgery due to complications with childbirth. I remember clearly looking down at her tiny face and saying, “I guess it’s just you and me, Heidi.” She was a big baby, and as a result, she slept through the night her very first night—and nearly every night after that. The only time she was ever difficult was on airplanes, where she cried the entire flight at full volume. I guess everyone gets one area where they’re difficult.

Heidi loved to catch lizards, draw pictures, and ride dirt bikes. For much of her childhood, her mother Cindy was very sick. But Cindy, like Heidi, was incredibly tough—so much so that she never let her illness show in front of our children. One silver lining of those years was that I got to put Heidi to bed every night. She loved books and lullabies. She’d sit in my lap in her onesie, sucking her thumb and snuggling into her blanket—named Kiki. I cherished those moments.

Heidi was a confident, fun-loving little girl who was always on the go. When Cindy passed away, Heidi was only six. A therapist once told me that six is about the hardest age to lose a parent—you don’t fully understand death, and the confusion can stay with you. Thankfully, her older brother Kurt, just three years her senior, helped fill that void. When Cindy first got sick, Kurt’s childhood ended overnight. He became an adult. He gently helped Heidi get ready in the mornings, guided her with quiet authority, and always treated her with love and respect. Both kids put their parents' needs above their own—they were the most unselfish children I’ve ever known.

After Cindy’s death, I met Kim and fell in love. We tried to blend our families—but, like many in that situation, we underestimated how hard it would be. Heidi, like the other children, became an unintended casualty of that lack of planning. She had to move into a new house, attend a new school, and adjust to new siblings. She went from being outgoing to more reserved.

Heidi worked hard in school, though academics didn’t come as easily to her as they did for her brother. When she was young, she said she wanted to be a doctor—but by high school, that dream seemed like a long shot. She played lacrosse for a while, but switched to cross country because she didn’t like how intense the new coach was. She took AP Biology, but didn’t get much encouragement from her teacher.

When she applied to college, she wanted to go to UC Davis or Berkeley. She got into UC Santa Cruz and Santa Clara. I pushed for Santa Clara—it was a pristine campus that looked like a corporate retreat. When we visited Santa Cruz, it felt more like a hub for mountain bikers and nature lovers than pre-med students. When she told me she was choosing Santa Cruz, I told her she was picking “trees and fun over medical school.” Of course, I thought I knew better.

But I was wrong.

Heidi thrived at Santa Cruz. She got outstanding grades and seemed happier than I’d seen her since Cindy’s death. She was the only woman on the UC Santa Cruz cycling team and lived in a house full of oddball bike guys—many of whom are still her close friends. She majored in human biology, worked in a lab, and shadowed a hand surgeon. She also joined and later led an organization that provided basic medical care to the homeless. Sometimes all they could offer was a foot bath or a warm meal. (Someone else once washed feet for the poor too, though I’m forgetting who.)

During summers, she worked for an absolute mess of an EMT company—a front-row seat to the worst of healthcare. Still, she graduated summa cum laude and became a full-time EMT while studying for the MCAT and applying to medical school. She lived at home with us, far from her friends, and continued working under difficult conditions. At times, she and her small partner were expected to transport patients weighing 300+ pounds. They sometimes dropped patients, and Heidi injured her back.

She got into two medical schools and chose Drexel in Philadelphia. I was heartbroken—selfishly—because I love being around Heidi. She brings me joy and has always been deeply kind to me. Every year, she still makes me a hand-drawn birthday card, which I treasure far more than any store-bought card.

Heidi began med school during COVID. At first, she was drawn to emergency medicine, but nothing clicked—until her pediatrics rotation. She called me and said, “I’ve found my people!”

Her clinical rotations during the height of the pandemic were grueling. We didn’t see her for nearly a year. It was an incredibly lonely, high-stress time for her. But then she met Shannon, her now-wife. Shannon, a Pennsylvania native, and her family became a source of tremendous support. I’d never seen Heidi so happy or confident. Watching her thrive in the middle of such chaos filled me with relief.

We were overjoyed when they got engaged, and even more so when they got married. It was one of the happiest days of my life. Watching two radiant brides standing side by side, while Shannon’s brother sang a song—it still makes me cry just thinking about it.

Shannon later moved to California for Heidi’s pediatric residency at Oakland Children’s. Heidi chose that hospital because she wanted to care for the underserved—just like she did in Santa Cruz and Philadelphia. She now works roughly 80 hours a week.

Six months ago, I met a big, military-looking guy at the airport who asked about my headphones. When I asked what he was doing in the Bay Area, he told me he was a traveling ICU nurse working at Oakland Children’s. He’d been a police officer, shot in the line of duty, and had spent a long time recovering in the ICU. That experience made him want to help others in the same situation.

I asked if he knew Heidi. He said, “Little blonde doctor? She’s the best. She knows what she’s doing—very effective. That’s a tough environment. You need incredible situational awareness. Heidi has it. And she’s so nice, too.”

I told him she didn’t really like the PICU—that she finds it too sad.

He replied, “It’s where the miracles happen. And Heidi is the kind of person who makes those happen.”

Tomorrow, on her birthday, Heidi will be in clinic all day—and then go straight into a 12-hour overnight PICU shift. She will work over 24 hours straight.

As a parent, you want to shield your child from pain and hardship. Heidi sees things every week that would break me. Yet even after all that, she remains funny, sweet, and gentle—someone I admire deeply.

She checks on me almost every day during this silly trip of mine. Every time I hear from her, it fills my heart.

I love you, Heidi. I am so lucky to be your dad.

Happy birthday Heidi

Ode to a fallen warrior

It’s the hearts you touch