A Letter to Austin: Love, Loss, and the Lessons That Remain

read time 4 minutes

Hey Man is a weekly newsletter redefining men’s mental health by sharing personal stories, research-backed insights, and practical tools to foster vulnerability, connection, and support.

In this newsletter:

• A heartfelt letter to Austin on his 19th birthday, reflecting on his presence, impact, and the lessons he continues to teach about vulnerability, connection, and mental health.

• A poem about support and resilience, reminding you that even in grief and darkness, you are not alone and can find strength through shared experiences.

• A practical exercise: "Letter to a Loved One", encouraging you to process grief by writing to someone you miss, fostering emotional expression, and strengthening connections.

Happy 19th birthday.

They say your 19th birthday is the one nobody talks about. Stuck between the milestone of 18 and the excitement of 21, 19 is the forgotten middle child of birthdays. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I would say to you today. I’ve thought about what we’d be doing, where you’d be, what kind of young man you’d be turning into. I imagine you laughing with Haden and me, making jokes at our expense, teasing Mom and Dad, and driving that blue Camaro like you owned the road. I imagine you full of life, full of dreams, full of everything that made you, you.

But instead of imagining, today, I write.

Austin, you were are my youngest brother, but I learn from you every day. Your life, your laughter, your presence—none of that has faded. It’s in the stories we tell, in the memories we hold onto, in the way we say your name. And even in your absence, you continue to shape who I am. Because of you, I’ve learned to lean into vulnerability. Because of you, I’ve learned how important it is to check in on the people we love—not just when things seem bad, but always. Because of you, I’ve made it my mission to help other young men who might be struggling in silence.

I carry you with me in every conversation I have about men’s mental health, in every speech I give, in every page I write. Your name is not just inked on my skin—it’s written into the work I do, the life I live, and the hearts of everyone who loved you.

I wish more than anything that I could say this to you in person. That I could see you roll your eyes at me getting sentimental. That we could argue over music, talk about life, or just sit in silence knowing that we were there for each other. But since I can’t, I’ll say it here.

I love you, Austin. I miss you. And I’ll keep telling your story—because it’s a story the world needs to hear.

Hey Man…

Now it’s your turn.

A "Letter to a Loved One" Exercise

This exercise is designed to help process grief, express emotions, and foster connection—even with those who are no longer physically present.

How to Do It:

• Pick someone: This could be a loved one you’ve lost, someone you’ve drifted apart from, or even a younger version of yourself.

• Set the scene: Find a quiet place. Light a candle, play music that reminds you of them, or simply sit somewhere meaningful.

• Write freely:

  1. What would you say if they were here?

  2. What memories bring you joy?

  3. What do you wish they knew?

• Decide what to do with it: You can keep the letter, read it aloud, burn it as a symbolic release, or even share it with others who might find comfort in your words.

Why It Works:

• Helps process grief in a tangible way.

• Strengthens emotional connection, even across time and distance.

• Encourages vulnerability—writing is often easier than speaking.

Bonus: If you’re comfortable, share a piece of your letter with someone you trust. Grief shared is grief lightened.

Grief is heavy, but we don’t have to carry it alone. If this letter-writing exercise resonates with you, I encourage you to give it a try. And if you know someone who could benefit from these words—a friend, a sibling, a parent—forward this email to them.

Let’s keep the conversation going. Let’s remind each other that even in loss, love endures.

Until next time,
Ethan