When she was little, before she could even walk, I carried her everywhere. Not because she couldn’t walk—though at first, that was true—but because I didn’t want to put her down. I wanted her close, right there in my arms, where I knew she was safe. Where I could feel her heartbeat and she could feel mine. Where I could whisper the things she wouldn’t remember but I hoped would soak into her bones.

I didn’t know then how fast it would go.

No one ever does.

You hear parents talk about it. You hear old men say, “Blink, and they’ll be grown.” But when you’re in it—when you’re sleep-deprived and covered in whatever food she decided she no longer liked that day—you can’t comprehend that one day, you won’t be needed for those little things.

But then, one day, you wake up, and she’s walking.
Then she’s running.
Then she’s driving.
Then she’s leaving.

And you realize—you’re not carrying her anymore.

THE FIRST TIME I WROTE THIS NOTE

The first time I wrote this note, she was still small. Maybe 10 or so - We put it on a bottle -. Still little enough that I could scoop her up in one arm and carry her to bed when she fell asleep on the couch. Still little enough that she’d hold my hand without thinking about it. Still little enough to believe that I had all the answers.

I wrote it down because I wanted her to know something:

If you set out to be liked, be prepared to compromise on anything at any time.
But if you want to live truly—if you want a life that makes your soul catch fire—pick something worth giving your life to.
Find something to believe in. Something to fight for.
Something to LIVE for.

Something you love more than breathing.

And once you find it—never give an inch.
Never compromise. Never surrender.
Take it all the way to the end.
Even if you have to go it alone.

Because only a few people will get it.
But the right people will.

That was the first time those words landed on a bottle.

The first time I put them into something I could hand to her and say, “This is for you.”

THE SECOND TIME—THE LAST TIME

Then, 18 years later, I found myself writing it again.

Not because she needed to hear it again.

She already knew.

But because I needed to say it again.

This time, she wasn’t a little girl. She was a woman. Not just taller, not just older—a whole person. Capable. Strong. Fierce.

And I realized—I didn’t need to carry her anymore.

Not in my arms. Not through life.

She had found her own two feet. And they were solid.

I wrote it on this bottle because it was the last time I could give her unsolicited advice before she was truly out there—out in the wild with the rest of us. She was stepping into the big, loud, chaotic world, and I wanted to slip one last note into her rucksack before she went.

That’s all this is.

A note in her bag.

Something for her to reach for when she needs it.

Because everything in life changes—but this never will.

FROM DADDY TO DAD TO SEMI-RETIRED, BUT NEVER DONE

The thing no one tells you about raising a daughter is that one day, she stops needing you the way she used to.

One day, she stops asking you how to do something and just does it herself.

One day, you go from teaching her to watching her. From guiding her to trusting her.

And if you’ve done your job right, you don’t worry.

Not much, anyway.

Somewhere along the way, “Daddy” became Dad. And now?

Now, I’m semi-retired from the day-to-day Dad job. She doesn’t need me to tie her shoes or wipe her tears anymore. She’s out there, making her own way.

But you don’t ever really retire from being a parent.

You still look at the world as Us vs. It. You still want to clear a path, break down doors, soften the blows.

But at some point, you step aside and watch them do it themselves.

And you realize—they’re ready.

WHY SAARLOOS & SONS EXISTS

If you’ve ever wondered why there is a Saarloos & Sons, why we built this, why we farm this land, why we make these wines—it’s because of that little girl.

We wanted to raise her here.

We wanted her to grow up in a place where the dirt stuck to her hands and never fully washed off. Where she could see the stars at night, not just the glow of city lights. Where she could learn what it meant to work, to build, to create—to know that nothing worth having comes easy.

We wanted her to stand on something solid.

And we needed a way to make it happen.

So we made this.

We built something that could support our family. Something we could pour our sweat and time and heart into. Something that, when we’re gone, will still be here.

We built it because we had to.

Because when you have a daughter like that, you do whatever it takes to give her a life worth living.

And if I had to do it all over again?

I wouldn’t hesitate.

I’d do it all over again.

Fifty times over.

There isn’t one thing I wouldn’t do for her.

And that? That will never change.

I love her more than breathing.