Dear Son,
Another year has passed and here I am sitting down to write your annual letter. Every year seems to bring more changes and this one has been no different.
You’ve grown so fast. It felt like overnight if I’m honest. It was like you woke up one morning and suddenly all of your clothes were too short in the legs and arms. Or suddenly one day we couldn’t find trousers that didn’t look like we’d forgotten how to use our washing machine or borrowed them from your sister.
You’ve carved out some independence. You’re pushing back on some boundaries. You roll your eyes if you don’t like what we’re saying. Holding our hands is no longer your go-to as we walk to school. The kisses goodbye a little less daily.
You’ve discovered new passions. Well, mainly one new passion – football! Our conversations these days are almost entirely football based. Facts, league tables, injury updates, hypothetical penalty takers and a worrying few days in the transfer window. We watch football, we play football, we talk about football and FIFA is rarely taken out of your Nintendo switch.
But perhaps the biggest change this year was something I had the privilege to witness a few months ago. It wasn’t football related, but tennis. You’ve been playing weekly for just under a year now. It’s fair to say you found it really tough at first. Sadly your genetics don’t offer much in the way of sporting prowess but you’ve persevered and we couldn’t be prouder of you for it. But a few months ago, you had the chance to play in a tournament, your first ever tournament.
We turned up not knowing what to expect and you were definitely nervous.
The first match came and the person you played had been in a few tournaments before. And it showed. You lost your first game. You tried your best to hide the disappointment, but I could see it. You were gutted.
But here’s the thing.
You played the next game. And the next game. And the next game.
And you lost every single one of them.
You won a lot of points, you came close to victory in more than a couple, but in the end, you lost every game. And after every game you walked to the next court and played the next one.
And I don’t know if I have the words to tell you how proud that made me.
Because son, there are some things you are an absolute natural at.
You‘ve got funny bones. You can make people laugh with your quick wit and clever lines.
You’ve got natural confidence. Standing up in front of people, talking to anyone, centre stage, all eyes on you, you own it and you know how to handle it.
You’ve got a great brain. You’re smart, you pick stuff up quickly and you really remember things.
This stuff comes easily to you. And the temptation when that’s the case is to stick to what you’re good at. Grab the low hanging fruit. Take the easy wins.
But this year, I’ve watched you step up and step out into things you are not a natural at. And not just give them a go, but keep giving them a go and keep giving them a go with a determination and sense of purpose that makes my heart sing.
But more than that, it challenges me about my own willingness to really put myself out there and do things I’m by no means a natural at. You challenge me about the things I’ve put in the “I can’t do that” section of my life or on the “I’m rubbish at that” list of things I just won’t bother trying again.
And right now, in a world that can often be scared to show the workings out, where perfection is performed for likes and saying “I got that wrong, let’s try again” is almost unheard of, you inspire me to keep trying, to keep failing, to keep falling over and getting back up again.
So thank you buddy, and happy birthday.
Love you son
Dad x
Matt White 