Pictures Can’t Hold Full Stories

Missing Who We Were, Loving Who We've Become

If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!

I write letters every week to my son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. I am using my writing to put towards his college fund. Myles is now 10 months old.

If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:

• How I Proposed to Your Mother

• How I Met Your Mother

• Balm for Wounds: Apologizing in Advance

• Tell them Where You’re From

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This letter to Myles is inspired by an interview where I was asked Five Big Questions by the incredible writer,

Caroline Cala Donofrio

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43 Weeks Old

Dear Myles,

"Who are these people?" the text read from your mother.

"IDK LOL," I responded.

It was a picture of two people smiling, smaller, a lot more fit, and a little less responsible. It was us, vacationing in Costa Rica, in matching white swimsuits two years before you were born.

I responded with 'LOL,' but deep inside, I was serious. I don’t know what happened to those people — like an obituary we never got to read; survived by the memories of “remember when we used to…” and “I miss when we…”

Because those people used to visit restaurants weekly, and they attended every flex from birthdays, brunches, dinners – not a vibe was missed. Those people hopscotched the Caribbean islands and binged-watched TV shows until the moon tagged in the sun. Those people spent nights in each other’s arms doing nighttime things even if nighttime things just meant sleep.

But pictures, as many thousands of words as they tell, can never fully hold a whole story. As much as I miss the days before you, those former days of who we were came with their own host of issues.

Those smiles don’t reflect the nights we cried wishing for a child. How every month felt like a lonely two-person funeral when we could not conceive. Or waking up every morning to the tantrums of the two babies upstairs while our second bedroom, we secretly planned for a nursery, lay empty. Or when we traded the Honda Civic for a Honda Accord because even though there was no positive pregnancy test, we just knew we needed to make room for a car seat. Those pictures could never tell how many baby showers we attended and gifts we sent, and how many times we became aunties and uncles, but really, we just wanted to be mother and father.

I wish the pictures could show you how we sold and gave away all of our things, ended our lease, left the alarm of waking up to the cries of babies who were not our own, and moved to Ethiopia to forget about trying to conceive. 

We signed a two-year contract to work at a beautiful school, but two months in, God does what He does, and we do our small part too. For the first time, the pregnancy stick looked a little different.

Those pictures don’t tell full stories or the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.¹ They can’t capture the faith we put in God and how we willed ourselves to believe He would do for us as He did for our friends and noisy neighbors.

While I miss the island hopping, the brunches, and the nighttime things, even when nighttime things just meant sleep, I've loved this version of us more. Your mother, even more beautiful now, fuller, and happier, tells me at least ten times a week, “Marc, I just love this kid.” There is a pleasure in watching the person you love, love what you created together after nights of watching them yearn for what they could not have. I love this version of me, softer, tender, being the father I never had. This is my own conception, raising you and my inner child—one from a womb, the other from my heart.

When I look at the pictures and the memories of who we used to be, I don’t see them as shells of what we once were or even what we left behind; rather, as the joy we created despite the immense void we felt. I know who we used to be, but I love who we are and what we have right now – you.

Sometimes, we endure tough times just so we can enjoy the blessings more.

Love, 

Daddy 

Photo Credit: Ray and Alyssa

A special shoutout to our newest paid subscribers:

Joshunda Sanders

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Ramya Vivekanandan

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Rhonda Raulston

, Lissa, and my cousin Sha. I appreciate you all so much ❤️

These letters between me and Myles are free to read.

But if you want to support, consider becoming a paid subscriber. All proceeds collected from Raising Myles contributes to his College Plan.

If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.

Let me know your thoughts:

1. Light: Where did you go on your most recent trip?

2. Medium: Who were you before that thing happened?

3. Heavy: Have you ever felt a sense of loss or nostalgia for the person you once were?

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Want more of Myles’ Letters?

• Here’s something light - Shirtless Nights

• Something medium - Last week you met your Grandfather

• Something Heavy - Sons of California and Palestine

• Read about Our first Father’s Day.

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I’ve teamed up with some great people to host a writing group called

Locked In

- a weekly virtual writing session for Black, Indigenous, & Writers of Color and writers of the global majority. We write together every Friday at 9:00AM ET. If you’re looking for some community around writing, please tap in.

1. Hebrews 11:1