You say that I can touch the top of buildings, that if I want to scale the highest structure in the world, I could. So in knowing that I take chances and sometimes I wonder if when you told me that, you we’re on drugs. All my life you’ve told me I could accomplish anything I wanted times infinity and I believed you. So here I am accomplishing one feat after the other all because you told me that if I wanted to I could. You weren’t on drugs, there we’re no hallucinogens in your coffee in the morning and as confused as I was when I found out I was afraid of heights, I climbed anyway. You taught me not to be afraid of being at the top but you knew I would learn that the climb to get there would not be as simple as reaching the top of the slide at 5 and gliding down. You promised me buildings and skylines and skyscrapers so much so to the point where sometimes in my dreams I lived in them. I was in Manhattan once and i lifted my small hand to the Empire State building and I laughed because I knew that if I wanted to I could scale that monument fearlessly. I write this because Dad you watched me fall straight from the monkey bars and cry my eyes out but get back on the very next visit to the park. You watched me go from crawling up stairs to wobbling legs that learned to carry me. I am dauntless not because I want to be, but because you’ve instilled so much in me that I know no other way.