Letter to My Sons

Boys,

When the fire comes—and it will—don’t run.
Stand your ground. Feel the heat. Know what’s worth burning.
Not everything you carry needs to be saved.

You’ll be told to move fast, talk loud, win more.
Don’t listen to that.
The quiet men are the ones you want near when things fall apart.

If your hands shake, that’s fine.
So did mine.
Do the work anyway.

Let yourself be broken by love at least once.
If you’re lucky, it’ll teach you where you end and someone else begins.
But leave them space. Don’t take what isn’t offered. Ever.

When loss comes, don’t try to beat it.
Feel it. Let it hollow you out clean.
Then build something inside the space it left.

The world will try to make you hard.
Let it make you solid instead.
Be unmovable when it counts.
But stay soft in the places that matter—your hands, your eyes, your heart.

People will try to name you.
Let your actions do it first.

Carry stories.
Especially ones that don’t paint you as the hero.
And remember: pain handled right becomes a kind of map.

Look out for each other.
That’s not advice, that’s bedrock,
even when you disagree, especially when you don’t speak.
You’ve always got each other’s back. That’s blood. That’s the deal.

And when no one notices you did the right thing—
good.
That means you’re growing into your name.

I’ll see you on the ridge.
Love,
Dad