I wrote this letter to my son on the night of the 2020 election, when I couldn’t sleep. Just laying in bed after midnight, frantically thumb-typing into the empty notepad on my glowing phone screen. I’m publishing it now because I keep coming back to it. No, that’s not quite right—I can’t actually come back to it because I never leave. I’m always carrying these thoughts with me, now. I never put them down. So here they are.
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Even though you are still with me, sometimes I catch myself missing you. I miss how small your body still is, how your skin sometimes still feels like baby skin, how your frame still holds some of your baby fat. The way you full-body hug me, your arms wrapped around my neck, nearly knocking me backward. Your dramatic pout, the way you haltingly piece your sentences together. Sometimes I miss our moments together even as we are in them. I hope that we are doing the right things for you. I hope we are giving you enough love and modeling enough empathy.
You’re my little boy, but the thing is that you never were. You have always been your own person. My body grew yours, but I don’t see any of myself in you. I don’t need to. I know how different you are, how much of a wholly separate, headstrong person you have always been, and I consider the many different ways your life can go.
Sometimes I look at you, and through the lens of our national moment, I see every man who joined a militia. I see every white nationalist or just plain misogynist jerk. I see anger, derision, and fear. All of these men were once sweet little boys still holding onto their baby fat. I don’t know how they ended up so far down their paths.
I want you to always be guided by a strong system of ethics and values. I will show you mine, and I will tell you what I believe, but I can’t tell you what yours are. I want you to share my worldview, but it’s more important that you earn your own. The only way you can do that is to push hard against what you believe in and see if it stands.
And yet independent thought opens up the possibility that you could arrive at very different conclusions than your parents did. Or that you could, as a young man, get sucked into misinformation that changes your life path profoundly. I have to entertain the possibility that we will lose you. If not physically, then spiritually; emotionally; mentally. Parenthood is constantly being open to the possibility of wrenching loss of one kind or another. I hope, of course, that it never happens, but I cannot guarantee it. No one can.
I hope in your life you choose kindness most of the time. I hope you are lucky. Really lucky. I hope you push boundaries. I hope you stay out of serious trouble. I hope your mistakes aren’t video-recorded. I hope you use your power to help others. I hope you know when to leave the hard drugs alone. I hope you are resilient. I hope you work hard for things that matter. I hope you come to understand that feeling bad isn’t forever. I hope you learn not to fear change. I hope you learn not to fear at all.
I hope you are happy.
