Hello, champ. What can I say? From the moment you and your sister were born, my heart has been full of a love I never thought was humanly possible. As a baby, you were full of wonder and so much energy. You had a beautiful, mischievous, and inquisitive nature that always made me smile. You were climbing, running, and jumping everywhere. You’d walk into a room wearing shoes four times, five times, 10 times too big for you — sometimes they were your mother’s.
The sound of your laughter is one of the most beautiful compositions made by nature. I am so blessed to be a part of your life, and our friendship is something I hold dear to my heart. That beautiful, bouncing boy has grown into a man who brightens up a room whenever he walks into it.
I have had the pleasure of watching you grow, of watching you learn life’s lessons — like how you conducted yourself when your heart was broken for the first time. To watch you navigate that pain with compassion and come out the other side appreciating your worth without holding on to any resentment, showing your vulnerability to me and your mother and allowing us to guide you through — that was truly admirable.
You’re the glue that holds friendships together — you give 110% to all of your relationships. You are a fantastic listener, never judgmental. You have the humility to sit with a prince or a pauper and treat them both equally with dignity and respect. I think one thing I’ve passed on to you is the quality of a proper hug, and anyone who knows you would completely agree.
You’ve got funny bones. The little voices you do, your silly impressions — and I love watching the double act you and your mum have created, especially when yous take the piss out of me (I am 5ft 6in). One of my fondest memories is when you and me went out to play football. We climbed over the school gate, wheeled out the goals, and had the best game of shootie the world has ever seen (I think I won 10-9). When we got home and knocked on the front door, we were covered from head to toe in mud. I’ll never forget your mum’s reaction: “What the hell have you two been up to?!” You and me looked at each other and burst out laughing.
My hopes, dreams, and aspirations for you are already being fulfilled. Keep being you, because you are brilliant. You constantly embody what your nana used to say: “No one is ever above you and no one is ever beneath you.” Always be true to yourself and to who you are. The only advice I could ever give you is to keep doing what you’re doing, always be willing to learn, always be open-minded, and always be honest.
I love you so much — you’re one of my best mates. I love you to the moon and back forever.
All my love,
Dad
Stephen Graham, actor
Count your blessings and phone your mum more.
Drew, actor, Merseyside
This is a letter — a few words to you, my son. My only son. My son and heir. Unfortunately for your sisters, you get the lot. All my readies. My hard-earned dough. What a result.
Just wanna thank you, really. For being a brainy little fucker. The smartest in your class. Never something I could claim to be. The way you can think logically is amazing to me. The way you can retain information brings a tear to my eye. Yes, you’re on the spectrum, but ain’t we all. It’s what makes us unique.
There’s a lot of wrong ‘uns in this world. I know that you won’t be one of ’em. I’d call you my prince. But as we’ve learned, princes can be noncy fuckers.
So proud that you’ve come from my nuts. It’s the greatest thing my testicles have ever done.
Don’t ever be afraid to be masculine. Always be considerate and kind and thoughtful to anyone you meet, coz you never know what they’re going through.
Love you, my boy.More than you will ever understand.
DadDanny Dyer, actor and presenter
Reject any behaviour that belittles women, even when it is disguised as humour, habit, or frustration. Challenge it in yourself first, and in others when necessary. How you treat women will say more about you than any success you ever achieve.
Martin, retired, Hampshire
A gentle soul is not something to be worn down until it hardens; it should be polished until it builds a confident armour.
Marc, project manager, Bristol
Hello Nik,
Now that you are 21, I feel I can speak to you as one adult to another. I have dozens of reasons to write this letter, but one outweighs them all: the constant sirens and explosions heard in the city every week. Even when I worked as a journalist at the front, recording interviews in the trenches, I had already accepted that I might die. But what frightened me most was something else — that I might not have time to talk to you again, to tell you what truly matters.
I no longer live on the frontline, but hundreds of kilometres away from it. Yet rockets and Shahed drones reach this far every week. I am afraid I won’t be able to do everything I have planned in life. And I am afraid I won’t be able to tell you what truly matters to me. That is why I am writing.
First and foremost, you might wonder why I remain in Ukraine, knowing my life is at risk. I did have the chance to leave. But I would have lost all respect for myself if I had. It is as simple as that. An enemy has attacked our country. It wants either to destroy us or to turn us into slaves. It is just like in The Lord of the Rings — the orcs have come for the people. I have taken up the fight. My weapon is not a gun, but words. I want to tell people the truth about this war. I truly believe that the truth will help bring it to an end.
That is why I stayed. That is why, for two and a half years, I risked my life, travelling along the frontline, helping foreign journalists cover the war, and writing reports and even a book about what I saw. That is why I joined the army, to serve my country. Once again: I could have left. Men of conscription age are not allowed to leave the country, but I have an exemption because I am a father of three children. One thought always stopped me: what kind of life would await me in Europe? The life of a refugee, odd jobs in a restaurant, canteen, or care home — just to keep a roof over my head and food on the table? I wouldn’t even be able to support our army. Right now in Ukraine, everything comes down to one simple truth: you are either in the army, for the army, or against the army. That is the reality of war. It is as simple as that — there are no grey areas; there is no room for doubt or debate.
So there you have it — that is what I believe. This doesn’t mean I think our country is perfect or wonderful. There is much I dislike — the way things are run, the behaviour of some politicians and commanders. But I remember John F. Kennedy’s words: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country. I stayed to fight for my country’s freedom. So that one day, when the war is over, you can come back home and live in a peaceful and free country. In the country for whose freedom your father fought. It may sound a little grand. But you cannot speak about values and faith without a certain grandeur.
Sometimes I look at our old photographs and recall the past. Sometimes I remember the first days after you were born. Your mum and I invited many friends over. We were the first in our circle to have a child, and it felt like everyone wanted to congratulate us. One of my friends asked me, “Do you feel like a father yet?” I didn’t know what to say. I was overwhelmed. There was suddenly a new person in my life, a person born out of your mum’s love and mine. My first feelings as a father were wonder, awe, and anxiety. I was afI was afraid to hold you in my arms, afraid to bathe you. You were a tiny baby, completely dependent on us. You cried, and your mum nursed you. You fell asleep, and she could finally rest. For a time, her whole world revolved around caring for you. I will never stop admiring this almost sacred power in women – the ability to create life, nurture it, and sustain it.
It makes me sad that I have to write this letter at all. It is yet another clear confirmation that I am not with you. After all, if you were living with me, I wouldn’t have to write any letters. I would simply talk to you every day; you would see how I live, how I interact with people, what I do and why – and that would be enough. Children don’t remember our words, but our actions, and they adopt our way of life. Or they leave it behind, if we behave unworthily. The hardest thing about these years of separation isn’t the shelling, rockets, or power cuts. The hardest thing is opening the front door after work and not hearing, “Daddy’s home!”
I wanted to write to you about raising children – but you know more about that than I do now. You’re training to be a nursery teacher; you’re with children every day. All I ask is that you don’t repeat my mistakes with your own children. Spend time playing with them while they’re still small. Be there.
We parents like to think we know which moments shaped our children. We’re usually wrong. It turns out the things that stay with you are the ones where you were watching and we didn’t even know it. Let’s talk about this soon. I have a fortnight’s leave coming, and I’ll be there to see you. I don’t know what you think you’ve learned from me, but I know what I’ve managed to give you: how to read, think, and explore the world. And smaller things, like how to ride a bike. We went swimming together, and I decided to find you a coach. Now your breaststroke is faster than mine. You’ve learned languages and left me behind. That’s the greatest joy for me as a father: when my children become better and stronger than me.
Your ever-loving father
Vlad
Vladyslav, Kyiv region journalist
Translated from Ukrainian by Marta Gosovska
I used to be obsessed with material things. All of those things don’t matter. You can still be miserable in a Ferrari!
Gareth, chef, Bedfordshire
Dear Jamie,
I don’t even know where to start this letter, son. I’ve never written to you in prison. It never felt right. Maybe because deep down I didn’t know how to. Maybe I never really learned how to be a father. My mum and dad were never there for me, and I guess I carried that on without meaning to.
But I need to say this straight. I’ve always been proud of you. Always. From the day you were born.
When we first had you, life was mad, but there were beautiful moments too. You walking round the estate in that little denim outfit, beanie on, that bit of baby jewellery I brought back from Miami – you looked the part, proper cool. Maybe that was my ego a bit, but you really did light up the place.
Goldie DJing in 2001. Photograph: Sal Idriss/Redferns
When me and your mum fell out, everything changed. It was chaos and I didn’t handle it well. I thought by leaving, going to America, searching for peace, chasing art, I was doing something right. But really I was just running. I thought you’d be safe with your mum on the estate, but I didn’t see how fast things were changing.
I still remember painting that walkway by your school, the same path you used to walk down every day. When they shut that school, it broke me. That place was the heart of the estate, and when they closed it, it felt like watching the soul of the place die.
And, you know what, Jamie, that’s where so much of this started, I think. The pressure. The madness. Kids from different estates suddenly turning on each other. It used to be a few scuffles, a black eye, a busted lip, and you’d move on. But it changed. SomewSomewhere along the way, it stopped being about fights and became a matter of life and death. From 0 to 100. Him or me. I never really saw it for what it was until you said it yourself: it was either him or me, Dad. That hit me hard. Because I realised it wasn’t just about violence or choices. It was about having no alternative. No space. No outlet.
When I was your age, we had youth clubs, breakdancing, graffiti, music. We had places to channel all that energy and pain. That’s what saved me, Jamie. Art saved me. It gave me somewhere to throw all the chaos inside me. That’s why I’m still here. But when they closed the schools, shut the youth clubs and cut the funding, what did they expect would happen? They ripped the heart out of those communities and then blamed the heartbeat for bleeding.
So yes, there’s blood on our hands. But it’s not just yours, son. It’s a whole generation that was failed. A country that turned its back on you kids and then acted shocked when the streets turned to fire. I don’t say that to make excuses. I just want you to know I see the bigger picture now. And I see you in it—not as a monster, not as a mistake, but as part of something much bigger that went wrong.
Then came the call. The one that said my son had taken someone’s life. Jamie, that broke me in half. My heart just sank. All I could think about were two doors: one with your mum answering, hearing you were wanted for murder, and another mother opening hers, being told her son was dead. Two mothers lost that day. That weight has never left me.
I didn’t visit for a long time because I was angry—not just at you, but at myself. Because when I looked at you, I saw that bright kid who used to paint beside me, the spark in your eyes, the laughter. There’s a photo of us, me leaning over you while you’re painting in your little pyjamas. That one still gets me.
When you came to stay with me in Hertfordshire, I tried to show you my world: the records, the dogs, the art. I thought maybe I could keep you out of trouble, get you into something new. But the streets were always calling, same as they called me when I was young. And when the police came, asking if I’d seen you, saying you were on the run, I can’t even describe the feeling. All that success, the house, the money—none of it mattered. I’d failed where it mattered most.
You know that old saying, you can drag a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. That’s how it felt. I tried, but maybe I didn’t try in the right ways. Maybe I just didn’t know how.
But I’ve seen you changing in there, Jamie. I’ve felt it when we talked. There’s more calm in you now, more understanding. The groups you’re doing, the reading—I can tell it’s helping. That’s why I want to send you more books. Things that might speak to you like art spoke to me.
You said something the other day that stuck with me, about feeling anxious about getting out. I understand that now. Freedom’s a strange thing after you’ve been trapped for so long. It’s going to feel weird, but you’ll find your feet. One step at a time, son. You’ll get there.
You’ve always been the stamp of me. Everyone says it. The look, the laugh, the way you move. You’re my son through and through.
And I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I was silent. Even when I didn’t show it.
Maybe next time I’ll start my letter with that, instead of ending with it.
I love you, Jamie, from the bottom of my heart.
Goldie, musician and artist
You can’t put toothpaste back in the tube. Mistakes will happen—face them, fix them, learn from them. That’s how life is lived.
Stewart, East Sussex, trainersTo my boys,
When I was your age, I remember feeling deeply let down by my dad because of how he had let down my mum, and it shook me to my core. Until then, I didn’t think dads could make mistakes. We didn’t speak properly for a while after that, but eventually my relationship with him improved a lot, because I started to see him for who he really was – a flawed human being who loved us very much. Partly because of this, I’ve tried to be as open and honest with you as I can about my mistakes, flaws, and doubts. Many of my flaws I’ve shown without meaning to – but it all helps!
You mean so much to me. I’ve watched all three of you grow into strong, funny, charming, kind, and loving individuals, and every single day I look at you and can’t quite believe you’re my sons. While I worry about how you’ll get on, what pain you might feel in the future, and what heartbreak you might suffer, I never worry about what you’ll contribute to the world. You are three people I couldn’t be prouder of.
I’ve been lucky enough to spend most of my working life doing something I love, and I’d urge you to do the same. Work is hard even when you love it, but doing something you love or care about is one of the best ways to live a contented life. I’ve never dreaded a day’s work, and I really wish that for you. Choose something you care about and chase it until you make it happen, at whatever level that may be. We all get caught up in successes and triumphs, but the greatest triumph is doing it at all. The greatest gift I can hope to give you is to help you stop caring about outcomes and throw yourself completely into what you’re doing. That’s far more enriching than any award, fame, money, or recognition.
More than that, though, the best advice I can give you is to show love and respect to everyone you meet. If you only think about improving and helping yourself, I promise you, life will feel unrewarding. If instead you spend your time making connections, supporting the people around you, showing love whether they’re your friends or not, and celebrating their successes as if they were your own, you’ll find happiness follows. What you give to others will come back to you many times over. That’s been my experience, anyway. But please remember, most of the time I’m not sure I’m right.
I’m sorry for every day I spent not being with you. I’m sorry for every moment that anything took me away. You are my best friends, and I would trade every single achievement I’ve ever made at work for a breakfast together. Maybe not a breakfast. A holiday. An all-inclusive holiday.
My sons, you’ve become who you are not because of me, but hopefully not in spite of me. A happy accident, maybe. Plus, let’s be honest, Mum is the better one, isn’t she? I know it’s easy to forget, but please make sure you find some way to show gratitude to her. She has spent every waking moment since you were born thinking about the best and most supportive ways to love you. And I think we can agree, she’s smashed it, despite being slightly obsessive about tidiness. I often agree with you on that, but don’t tell her I said that, as she and I have to present a united front.
Thank you for being who you are – kind, loving, and almost-as-funny-as-your-dad boys who I’m so beyond proud to have played a small part in bringing into the world.
With all of my love,
A flawed human being who loves you very much
Romesh Ranganathan, comedian
Try to switch off. From work, but from screens in particular. I know it’s hard, and I don’t say this as a nagging parent; I say it as a parent addicted to bloody screens. I love you.
Anonymous
Robbie and Phoenix
One of my biggest dreams growing up was to become a parent. I imagine
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs Dont Be Afraid to Be Masculine Laugh More and Call Your Mum Letters to Our Sons
General Questions
What is this book about
Its a collection of letters written by famous menincluding Stephen Graham Riz Ahmed and Danny Dyeroffering life advice to their sons The letters cover topics like masculinity relationships emotions and growing up
Who wrote the letters
A range of wellknown British men from different backgrounds including actors musicians athletes and public figures Each contributor writes a personal letter to their own son
Who is the book for
Its mainly aimed at young men and boys growing up but anyone can read itfathers mothers sons or anyone interested in honest conversations about manhood
Is it just for men
No While its written from men to their sons women and people of any gender can read it and find the advice useful
How long is the book
Its a collection of short letters so its easy to dip in and out of You dont need to read it cover to cover
Beginner Questions
What does dont be afraid to be masculine mean
It means you shouldnt feel ashamed of being a man or of having traditionally masculine traits The book argues that masculinity isnt toxic by itselfits about how you use it
Why does the book say laugh more
Because laughing is good for your mental health It relieves stress connects you with others and stops life from feeling too serious all the time
Why call your mum
Because your mum wont be around forever The book stresses showing love and gratitude to family while you still canits a simple act that means a lot
What kind of advice is in the letters
Practical personal advice on things like dealing with failure showing emotion treating women with respect working hard and being a good father
Do I need to know who the writers are to understand it
No You dont need to be a fan of Stephen Graham or Danny Dyer to get something from their letters The advice stands on its own
More Advanced Questions
Does the book say men shouldnt show emotion
Nothe opposite It encourages
