If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!
I write letters to my son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn’t experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, here are some good places to start.
If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back.
Dear Myles,
I am not sure how it’s possible, but somehow, my phone with 256 gigs of space has run out of room. When I finally opened my settings to see what could have filled it up so quickly, it all made sense.
I got this phone a little before you were born, a little more than two years ago. When I scroll through my photo log, nearly every other picture is of you. You can trace your whole story through these images—from the first time you began to form in your mother’s belly, the way she smiled and held that small bump that would soon be you, still reminds me how much we prayed for that moment. To your first sonogram, when I asked forgiveness instead of permission and snapped a photo during the appointment even though I wasn’t supposed to anyway. And then the day we left the hospital, when your preemie outfit swallowed you whole, and we had to roll up the sleeves just so we could see your tiny fingers.
You can see the time we gave you a lemon —how you scrunched up your face as if you would never trust us to feed you again—and even though you can’t see us in the frame, you can hear us laughing, so, so hard. There are photos and videos of your first steps, how my voice cracked because I never thought seeing you do something for the first time could be so beautiful.
As I scrolled through them, trying to decide which ones to delete to make more space, I froze. What could possibly go? The one where your mother pulled up after being gone all day, and you ran to her as if she had been gone for a month?
Or should I delete our first horseback ride together at last year’s community fall fest, when I could feel your little body tense up from being so high above the ground signaling to me I better not let you fall.
How do I decide between keeping the video of you meeting your grandfather for the first time, how he grabbed you with such possession it made me wonder if he had held me like that when I was your age, or the one where you are sitting on Grandma’s lap eating soup joumou? Only a picture could capture the way your eyes widened when the amalgamation of flavors of all things wonderful hit your tongue. I smile every time I see it, because that trip to Jersey from Alabama was so hard, but seeing your little yellow soup mustache made it all worth it.
Every time I press record now, my phone reminds me there is no space, that something has to go. And that makes me a little sad, because everything feels so precious. If I scroll fast enough, I can see your two front teeth turn into a full smile of molars, or how your skin went from “is this jaundice?” to “that boy chocolate like yo momma.” Pictures that remind me how you used to fit across my chest, and now you are too heavy for me to carry more than a block.
Why must phones run out of space? Is this why growing up there were so many album books? How parents try to capture life in stills so we can look back and see what used to be and what’s no longer?
I’ve been thinking about these letters lately, about how one day you will be able to read them for yourself. It makes me feel full, because I’ll never run out of space. You’ll never have to sift through 256 gigs of data, wondering what’s special and what’s not, or what story hides behind a picture—like one in an old album no one thought to write on the back of. These letters feel like my way of writing in a photo album you will one day open, where every photo and video has its story, your story — our stories.
This week I ignored the message on my phone telling me something has to go. I took out my old camera, and while I reflected on all those pictures of you, I realized we don’t have enough of us—just us together. Because who takes pictures of the photographer anyway?
I can’t prove it, but I think the first selfie came from a dad who, while taking a picture of his family, finally decided to turn his wrist ever so slightly, placed himself between the lens and his family, and stretch his arm as far as he could—as if to say, let me get in on this because I matter too.
And this is why I love this video of us reading. Because we’re together. Because there is something about you that makes my voice raise an octave. Because there is something about love that makes a man’s voice sound like he should sing soprano.
And when I am tired and exhausted, it’s these video, these moments, that have my phone’s data bursting at the seams, reminding me that all of this will one day be the past.
These videos and these letters, I hope when you read them, you will know that I loved you, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Love,
Daddy
These letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go toward Myles' college savings. A paid subscription also gives you access to these letters where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.
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Let me know your thoughts:
Have you ever hesitated to delete a photo not because of what it showed, but because of what it made you feel?
What do you hope your child will understand about you through the photos, letters, or moments you leave behind?
How has becoming a parent changed what you notice, what you save, or what you let go of?
How do we decide what is worth keeping when everything feels precious? Admittedly, this chapter we are living in, I wish I can press delete!
Want more of Myles’ Letters?
How I Met Your Mother was was featured on Substack Reads!
Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?
Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love
Read about Our first Father’s Day.
