Before my son Will could hear me, I was already writing to him.
What began as a private endeavor — a father putting down in writing what he didn't want to lose — has become central to the most important project I've ever worked on — being a dad. Years of letters, written to my son, since before he was born. It’s not a blog, or even advice. Closer to a collection, a record of accounts: what I was thinking, what I was afraid of, what I wanted him to know, in any event. Something I yearned for when my father was no longer here to answer.
They arrive as life presents itself — a birthday, a death, a song, an ordinary afternoon that suddenly matters and makes your hair stand up. Some are a paragraph. Some are longer. Taken as a whole, they're a journal of sorts, but also a library, a soundtrack, an archive — the small daily evidence of a life lived before and now, alongside his.
I lost my father at eighteen. There was too much left unsaid, that's why this exists. Will should never have to wonder what I thought about him, or what he means to me. It’ll be here, as true as the day.
This began as something just for him. I've come to realize now, it's for all of us — even me.
Read a few:
The Letter — the day I learned my father had died, with his last letter still in my pocket.
Breathing Time — a song, a playground, and learning to stand back instead of catching him.
The Truth — my mother, the harder inheritance.
The letters live on Substack, where new ones arrive as they come. If you'd like to follow along —