What’s it like being raised in my house?

Picture six kids. One creative dad. One strong, brilliant, unshakeable mother. Add a bit of emotional volatility, inappropriate humour, big dreams, late-night deep talks, and the occasional impromptu living room dance battle—and you’re close.

We raised a pack.

Not a perfectly behaved, matchy-matchy Hallmark family—but a full spectrum of weird and wonderful. From 19 to 28, each of our kids has carved out a path entirely their own. Some have special needs. But around here, that’s not a euphemism—it’s a f***ing superpower. Others are dripping in creativity. A few could out-logic a NASA engineer. And some have a work ethic that makes me feel like a slacker in comparison. They’re not carbon copies. They’re originals.

Each of them has struggled. Each has faced storms I couldn’t shield them from. But holy hell, have they grown. Stronger. Softer. Smarter. Braver.

This house has never been quiet. It’s been messy, emotional, loud, loving, supportive, sarcastic, healing, hilarious, imperfect, and bursting at the seams with personality. I’ve taught them a lot. They’ve taught me more. Like how resilience isn’t loud, it’s just consistent. How love can look like listening to a rant at 2 a.m. How creativity lives in both chaos and quiet. And how every human deserves a soft landing, no matter how hard they hit the world.

We didn’t raise robots. We raised real humans. Beautifully flawed, constantly evolving, gloriously unfinished works of art. They make me proud in ways that language can’t reach.

And if the only thing I leave behind in this world is six humans who know how to love deeply, laugh loudly, and show up fully, then I’ve done something right.