My coworker Fujimoto stayed with a family in Pennsylvania for a week last month. On the first night, he was cold. In the hallway, there was a little box on the wall with a glowing number. 68. Fujimoto is Japanese. In Japan, we use Celsius. To him, 68 degrees is the temperature of a bath that kills you. He was confused. He was cold. He pressed the button. 71. He went back to bed, warm and innocent. At 2:14 a.m., he heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Slow. Certain. It was Rick. The father. 56. Boxers. One sock. He was standing in front of the little box, staring at it like it had betrayed his family. "Who touched the thermostat?" Fujimoto opened his door, stepped into the hallway, and bowed deeply. "It was me. I am very sorry." Rick looked at him for a long time. "Son. Do you pay the electric bill in this house?" "No, sir." "Then we have a problem." From the bedroom, his wife: "Rick, leave him alone." From another room, his daughter: "Dad, it's three degrees." Rick, without turning around: "Three degrees is how it starts." He pressed the button three times. 68. He went back to bed. Nobody said anything else. Fujimoto did not sleep. The next morning at breakfast, Rick explained the rules to him. Calmly. Like a priest. The thermostat belongs to Dad. 68 is a number our forefathers chose. If you're cold, you don't touch the thermostat. You put on a sweater. If you're still cold, you put on a second sweater. "What if I am still cold after that?" Fujimoto asked. Rick put down his coffee. "Then you're not wearing enough sweaters." After breakfast, Rick went upstairs, came back down, and handed him something. His own college sweatshirt. Faded. Soft. Penn State, Class of 1992. "Here. You're one of us this week. You're cold like one of us." Fujimoto wore it every day. On the fifth night, at 2 a.m., Fujimoto got up to use the bathroom. He looked at the little box on the wall. 70. He turned around. Rick was standing in the dark at the end of the hallway, holding a glass of water. They looked at each other. Rick said, very quietly: "Don't tell my kids." That is when Fujimoto understood how it works here. An American father does not say "I love you." He says, "Put on a sweater." And then, after you fall asleep, he turns it up two degrees. On the last day, Fujimoto tried to give the sweatshirt back. Rick pushed it back into his hands. "Keep it. Japan's gonna be cold." Fujimoto came home to Tokyo. He has a two-year-old son. Last week, his son grabbed the remote for the air conditioner and pressed every button. Fujimoto heard a voice come out of his own mouth. Deep. Slow. Certain. "Who touched the thermostat?" His wife stared at him. He told me, "That is the moment I knew. I had become an American dad." He was wearing the sweatshirt.

Sometimes I don't know how to tell you that I love you. Not because I don't want to, but because the feeling is too big to explain in words. You know, every time I see you smile, it feels like the whole world stops for a second, everything feels more beautiful, lighter. I don't need a reason why I love you, not because you're beautiful and smart, although that's all true, I love you because you're you, the way you tell me about the little things that make your day, or how you remember trivial things that even I forget, it makes me realize, you're special. Maybe I can't always be the most romantic person or understand what you're feeling, but I promise, I'm always there for you, no matter if it's a sunny or cloudy day, you don't have to walk alone. If I could say one thing that I'm really sure of right now, I would just say this: “I love you, more than what I can show, so, don't ever doubt me, okay?”.

I asked 50 Japanese people, ages 9 to 91, one question. "What do you admire most about Americans?" Here are the top answers. 10. "They clap when the plane lands." (Office worker, 34) 9. "They say 'I love you' every time they hang up the phone. Even men. Even to other men." (Taxi driver, 61) 8. "A stranger told me she liked my shoes. Then she just walked away. She didn't want anything." (High school girl, 16) 7. "They thank the bus driver when they get off." (Bus driver, 55. He got emotional saying this.) 6. "They tell you their whole life story in the grocery line. I know about one man's divorce, his boat, and his knee surgery. We knew each other for four minutes." (My mother, 64) 5. "They stand for the anthem at a children's baseball game." (Little League coach, 47) 4. "When they lose, they shake hands and say 'good game.' And they mean it." (Sota, 12) 3. "They fly the flag on a regular Tuesday. No holiday. Just because." (Nurse, 28) 2. "They help a stranger push a car out of the snow, then leave without saying their name." (My cousin's husband, 52, who got stuck in Colorado once) And the number one answer came from the oldest person I asked. My grandfather. He's 91. He thought about it for a long time. Then he said: "They still believe tomorrow will be better than today." I asked him what he meant. "In 1946, we had nothing," he said. "The American soldiers I met were young and far from home. But they acted like the future was coming, and it was going to be good. After a while, we started to believe them." I asked him if he thought Americans still believe that. He nodded slowly. "Tell them," he said, "not to stop."

Some dreams don’t disappear. They just get rewritten by the people who need you more. I spent years of my youth chasing a life as a guitarist. Fingerstyle was my passion. I put in the hours, earned respect for the craft, and thought music would be what my life revolved around. Then my daughter Madeline was born, and everything changed. She’s 13 now. She’s had seizures since she was six months old. She’s non-verbal, and her development has been severely delayed. I remember crying the first time she walked... she was eight. I wasn’t sure she ever would. I still have this recurring dream where I hear her say “I love you.” Most people take those words for granted. I still hope to hear them one day. In the meantime she shows me in her own way. She’ll sit next to me, grab my hand, give me big wet kisses on the cheek, and laugh. Those moments are everything. Early on, my wife and I had to make a hard decision about our lives and hers. Madeline needs care around the clock...lifting, bathing, feeding, managing seizures, everything. It takes a tremendous amount of physical strength and constant presence. My wife had the opportunity to become a special education teacher. We decided she would be the one to work, and I would stay home to care for Madeline. It wasn’t an easy choice. It meant one income, giving up the career path I thought I’d have, and accepting that our roles would look very different from what most people expect. We believed it was the best way to give Madeline what she needs and still provide for our other three kids. Looking back, it was the right decision for our family, even if the cost has been high. The truth is, this life is beautiful and brutal at the same time. I’ve been changing diapers for 13 years straight with no end in sight. With only one of us able to work, the financial strain has been constant. I’ve given up meals so my family could eat. I’ve set aside the life I thought I was building so I could be present for the one I actually have. I’m not perfect. I’m tired. I’m scared about the future... about who will care for Madeline when I’m gone, about how we’ll keep everything together. I don’t always have answers. I’ve learned to accept the tears that come with this life. Some things are simply outside our control. What we lack in money we try to make up for in love. My wife and I have given everything we have to give. Right now, though, the financial weight has become too much. We’re asking for help so we can build a little more security for our family. If you’ve ever had to trade one dream for another, or if you’ve ever made a hard decision about who stays home so someone else can be cared for, you understand. We’re not looking for a handout. We’re trying to keep going for the people who need us. If you’re able and willing to support us, I’d be deeply grateful. Cash App: $CarlosTrujilloGuitar Venmo: @Carlos_Trujillo_Guitar Thank you for reading. It means more than I can say. #SpecialNeeds# #Christianity# #prayer#

My cousin Nao married a man from North Carolina. Last year, they had a baby girl in Tokyo. Which meant two grandfathers had to meet. Nao's father is my uncle Shigeru. For 38 years, he was a station master in Tokyo. In Japan, that means if a train is forty seconds late, it is your personal failure. He has worn the same watch since 1987. He sets it every morning. Tyler's father is Gerald. Retired Marine. Gunnery sergeant. Drill instructor for eleven years. He also has a watch. They do not share one word of a common language. Visiting hours at the hospital started at 7:00 a.m. At 6:45, Gerald walked into the lobby. Shigeru was already there. They looked at each other. They looked at their watches. They looked at each other again. Gerald nodded once. Shigeru bowed once. Nao says it was like watching two wolves recognize each other. In the Marine Corps, Gerald explained later, early is on time and on time is late. Shigeru said Japanese railways teach the exact same thing. They should have been enemies. They turned out to be the same man. Then the war began. Diapers. Gerald changed them like he was making a barracks bunk. Tight. Square. Corners you could bounce a quarter off. Shigeru timed him with his station watch. Forty-one seconds. The next morning, Shigeru did one. Thirty-eight. By Friday, the record was nineteen seconds, the baby was the cleanest human being in Tokyo, and Nao had banned stopwatches from the nursery. Lullabies. Gerald sang the Marines' Hymn. "From the halls of Montezuma," at a whisper, like a man trying not to wake a sleeping platoon. The baby stared at him. Wide awake. Ready to serve. Then Shigeru leaned over the crib and, in his old platform voice, said: "The doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors." She was asleep in four seconds. Gerald demanded lessons. For the rest of his visit, a retired Marine with forearms like fence posts walked the hallway at 2 a.m., whispering Japanese train announcements to a baby. "Doa ga shimarimasu." His accent could derail a train. She sleeps every time. One night, around three, Nao found them both in the nursery. Not competing. Just sitting there, each holding one of the baby's feet. Through a translation app, Gerald was telling Shigeru something. "When my son was born, I was deployed. I met him when he was seven months old. He cried when I picked him up. He didn't know who I was." Shigeru was quiet for a long time. Then he typed that in 38 years, he never made it to one of Nao's sports days. Trains do not stop for sports days. Two men who spent their whole lives being on time for everyone except their own kids. Gerald looked down at the baby. "Well," he said. "We're early this time." When Gerald flew home, Shigeru took him to Tokyo Station. His old station. He wore his old uniform. His former staff lined up on the platform. Shigeru is retired. He is not allowed to give the departure signal anymore. So he gave it from behind the yellow line. Through the window of the train, Gerald saluted. He held it until the train was gone. Now, every Sunday at exactly 7:00 a.m. Tokyo time, they video call. They hold up their watches. They nod. Gerald says, "Doa ga shimarimasu." Shigeru says, "Semper Fi." They hang up. Total call time: about forty seconds. Nao says it is the most honest conversation anyone in our family has. This spring, the baby said her first word. "Go." Gerald says it's Marine. Go, go, go. Shigeru says it's a departure signal. Nao says she was talking to the dog. Nao also says some men say "I love you." Some men show up fifteen minutes early. Her daughter has two of the second kind.

I'm headed to San Francisco next week. First trip away since my son was born two months ago! My life right now is 3am feedings, a toddler running around, and building in the gaps. Nap time is my new deep work block. So when I say I'm excited to sit at a dinner table and have a full conversation with adults about AI agents and startup ideas without anyone throwing food at me, I mean it. I'll be in town for a few days. If you're building something interesting, I'd love to buy you dinner and hear about it. Who wants to hang out in SF?

Nothing could prepare me for the feeling I had during last night’s show—the absolute pride and joy I felt singing for the people of Brazil. The sight of the crowd during my opening songs took my breath away. Your heart shines so bright, your culture is so vibrant and special, I hope you know how grateful I am to have shared this historical moment with you. An estimated 2.5 million people came to see me sing, the biggest crowd for any woman in history. I wish I could share this feeling with the whole world—I know I can’t, but I can say this—if you lose your way, you can find your way back if you believe in yourself and work hard. You can give yourself dignity by rehearsing your passion and your craft, pushing yourself to new heights— you can lift yourself up even if it takes some time. Thank you Rio for waiting for me to come back. Thank you little monsters all over the world. I love you. I will never forget this moment. Paws up little monsters. Obrigada. Love, Mother Monster.