Dear Miss 12, you were born at midday on a snowy Tuesday, and while all parents think their baby is special, you truly were. At 35 weeks pregnant, I was diagnosed with eclampsia, HELLP syndrome and vasa previa. You had intrauterine growth restriction, a velamentous cord insertion, and a true knot in your umbilical cord. That is just a lot of medical terms that tell us we were both very sick and that giving birth would be dangerous. They told us you might not survive.

But nobody told you that. And after just 50 minutes of labour, you arrived, almost a kilogram heavier than expected and screaming your little lungs out. They whisked you off to special care, where you stopped breathing and needed to be resuscitated but, apparently, you were just keeping them on their toes because from then on, you were fine breathing on your own. By the time I had recovered enough to come and see you, you were tucked into your humidicrib and at 3.2kgs you looked like a giant compared to the rest of the premmie babies in there.

The paediatrician came to talk with us. They told us you might have ongoing health problems, feeding problems, and learning disabilities.

But nobody told you that, and just two hours later, after you’d pulled your feeding tube out for the second time I got to lift you out of your special little box and breastfeed you for the first time. We took you home just five days later, and although the first twelve weeks had some rocky moments, after that, you went from strength to strength and we found out just how tough you were.

At 12 weeks old, I took you for your check-up, and they told me you were failing to thrive, and that although your birth weight had been good, you would probably never catch up in size to your peers.

But nobody told you that. By six months, you were crawling. At nine months you were standing up, and the day after your first birthday, you took your first step. By two, you were the same size as your peers, and by three, you were in the 90th percentile for height and weight. Aged 10, you were the second tallest in your school class.

Today, on your 12th birthday, you stand 10cm taller than your 17-year-old sister. And I look at you and wish I could go back to the scared parents we were and tell them that it would all work out because you would never let anyone, particularly a paediatrician, tell you how to live your life.

When you were two, you asked Santa for glue for Christmas because we'd spent an afternoon cutting up a toy catalogue and making a collage of presents, and you decided glue was the most exciting part. When you were three, you asked Santa for a lasso for Christmas, so you could lasso your sister. When you were four, you asked for a drum kit. You have always marched to the beat of your own drum, little one. And you are one talented drummer.

In kindergarten, you were devastated to discover you didn’t have the power to expel students when they annoyed you. In year two, you tried to give your teacher a detention after you discovered a spelling error in your homework. In year five, you learned about the environment and what we’ve done to the coral reefs and today you are determined to become an environmental scientist or a marine biologist so you can help repair your world. You’ve always had a strong sense of justice, and you fight for what is right.

I told you last week I would probably stop writing this column at the end of the year, so you could start high school in anonymity. You said no, because you love sharing our lives, and the idea that people might inject some fun into their families after reading our exploits.

Doctors didn't know you. Teachers didn't know you. Truthfully, neither did we. We couldn't have imagined that the tiny baby everyone worried about would grow into the determined, funny, passionate girl who has spent the last twelve years proving people wrong. Once you've decided what the right path is, nobody gets to tell you where you're going.

Each and every day, we are so proud to be your parents, and we can't wait to see where that path takes you next.

Happy birthday, Milky-moo. We adore you.