What does it mean to raise a boy today?
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. As I prepare to welcome my son this fall, I’ve found myself returning to the men I’ve loved in literature—Atticus Finch, Harry Potter, even Jay Gatsby—and wondering: What will my son learn from these stories? What kind of man will they help him to become?
When I first became a mother, I knew I wanted a daughter. Deep down in my soul, I felt called to raise a girl. I wanted to raise a kind, smart, independent, strong woman, just like the women who raised me. I had a framework for it. I had lived it.
When I got pregnant with my second child, I naturally pictured another little girl. A sister for Lilah, like the sister I had growing up. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a boy—I just didn’t know how to imagine it. I didn’t have brothers. I was raised in a world shaped by women, and I had learned how to navigate that world as one of them.
So when David and I sat down to open our genetic test results and the word “Male” popped up on the screen, I just stared. My husband beamed—he’d always wanted one of each—but I felt stunned. Not disappointed. Just...unmoored.
How would I raise a boy?
How would I teach him to be gentle in a world that prizes toughness? To be curious in a culture that rewards certainty? To be emotionally fluent in a society that still tells boys to “man up?”
It didn’t take long for the fear to shift into purpose. I realized I had the rare opportunity to raise a boy who could grow into a good man—one of the good ones, as women often say when we recognize kindness, presence, and integrity in a partner. The kind of man who listens. Who learns. Who leads with his heart. Just like his dad.
And I realized I had help—not just from literature, but from David, too. His example is already the best guide of all.
Just as I once looked to Elizabeth Bennet, Anne Shirley, Jo March, and Hermione Granger as models of female strength and nuance, I can now look to the men in fiction who’ve shaped my view of goodness, complexity, and courage.
Atticus Finch is the obvious starting point. Not because he’s flawless, but because he raises his children to be conscious and empathetic—to stand up for what’s right, even when it’s unpopular or difficult. He teaches that morality isn’t loud. It’s consistent. It’s steady. It’s earned through action.
Harry Potter, though a boy wizard, is deeply human. He’s brave, yes—but also vulnerable. He cries. He doubts. He loves deeply. And most importantly, he chooses goodness again and again, even when the world tells him he doesn’t have to. I want my son to see that real courage isn’t about power—it’s about choosing to be softer in a hard world.
Then there’s Jay Gatsby, who on the surface might seem like an odd inclusion. But Gatsby has something I want to preserve in my son: a dreamer’s heart. A belief in the possibility of transformation. In love. In something more. The tragedy of Gatsby isn’t his longing—it’s that he lived in a world that didn’t know what to do with it. I hope my son never feels ashamed of wanting something deeply.
And I hope, too, that he carries the ethical backbone of Atticus, the emotional bravery of Harry, and yes, the unshakeable hope of Gatsby.
I want him to grow up to be worthy of a partner like Elizabeth Bennet—sharp, principled, and unwilling to settle. I want him to be kind and thoughtful like Gilbert Blythe, who let his actions speak louder than his pride. And above all, I want him to be himself—whoever that turns out to be—with courage and compassion.
Stories expand the world for us. They teach us empathy in the most powerful way: by placing us inside someone else’s life. They teach us not just how to imagine, but how to recognize. They remind us that when something unfamiliar happens in real life, our first reaction doesn’t have to be fear or judgment—it can be understanding.
So yes, I’m nervous. But I’m also wildly hopeful.
I can’t wait to raise a man who listens.
A man who leads with tenderness.
A man who knows the weight and worth of words.
A man who knows that strength and softness are not opposites, but companions.
A man who is just like his father—the reason I believe in happy endings.
Grant, I can’t wait to meet you.
Oh, the stories we’ll read. Oh, the story you’ll live.
I love you forever plus a day,
Your mom
