The Adolescence actor and the psychologist Orly Klein asked fathers to write to their sons. The results – from famous dads to the wisdom of strangers – were moving and motivating. Here’s a selection

What can I say? From the moment you and your sister were born my heart has been full of a love I never thought was humanly possible. As a baby you were filled with wonder and so much energy. You had a beautiful, mischievous and inquisitive nature, which has always made me smile. You were climbing, running and jumping everywhere. You’d walk into a room wearing shoes that were four times, five times, 10 times too big for you … Sometimes they were ye mother’s.

The sound of your laughter is one of the most beautiful compositions made by nature. I am so blessed to be a part of your life, and our friendship is something I hold dear to my heart. That beautiful bouncing boy has grown into a man who brightens up a room whenever he walks into it.

I have had the pleasure of watching you grow, of watching you learn the lessons of life, like how you conducted yourself when your heart was broken for the first time. To watch you navigate that pain with compassion and come out the other side appreciating your worth without holding on to any resentments, showing your vulnerability to me and your mother and allowing us to guide you through – that was truly admirable.

You’re the glue that holds friendships together – you give 110% to all of your relationships. You are a fantastic listener, never judgmental. You have the humility to sit with a prince or a pauper and treat them both equally with dignity and respect. I think one thing I’ve passed on to you is the quality of a proper hug, and anyone who knows you would completely agree.

You’ve got funny bones. The little voices you do, your silly impressions, and I love watching the double act you and your mum have created, especially when yous take the piss out of me (I am 5ft 6in). One of my fondest memories is when you and me went out to play football. We climbed over the school gate, wheeled out the goals and had the best game of shootie the world has ever seen (I think I won 10-9). When we got home and knocked on the front door we were covered from head to toe in mud. I’ll never forget your mum’s reaction: “What the hell have you two been up to?!” You and me looked at each other and burst out laughing.

My hopes, dreams and aspirations for you are already being fulfilled. Keep being you because you are brilliant. You constantly embody what your nana used to say: “No one is ever above you and no one is ever beneath you.” Always be true to yourself and to who you are. The only advice I could ever give you is to keep doing what you’re doing, always be willing to learn, always be open-minded and always be honest.

I love you so much – you’re one of my best mates. I love you to the moon and back for ever.

a few words to you, my son. My only son. My son and heir. Unfortunately for your sisters, you get the lot. All my readies. My hard-earned dough. What a result.

Just wanna thank you, really. For being a brainy little fucker. The smartest in your class. Never something I could claim to be. The way you can think logically is amazing to me. The way you can retain information brings a tear to my eye. Yes, you’re on the spectrum but ain’t we all. It’s what makes us unique.

There’s a lot of wrong ’uns in this world. I know that you won’t be one of ’em. I’d call you my prince. But as we’ve learned, princes can be noncy fuckers.

So proud that you’ve come from my nuts. It’s the greatest thing my testicles have ever done.

Don’t ever be afraid to be masculine. Always be considerate and kind and thoughtful to anyone you meet coz you never know what they’re going through.

Love you, my boy. More than you’ll ever understand. Dad

Now that you are 21, I feel as if I can speak to you as one adult to another. I have dozens of reasons to write this letter, but one outweighs them all: the constant sirens and explosions that can be heard in the city every week. Even back when I was working as a journalist at the front, recording interviews right in the trenches, I had already accepted the possibility that I might die. But what frightened me most was something else – that I might not have time to talk to you again, to tell you what truly matters.

I no longer live on the frontline, but hundreds of kilometres away from it. Yet rockets and Shahed drones reach this far every week. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do everything I’ve planned in life. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you what truly matters to me. That’s why I’m writing.

First and foremost, you might be wondering why I remain in Ukraine, knowing that my life is at risk. Indeed, I had the chance to leave. But I would have lost all respect for myself if I had. It’s as simple as that. An enemy has attacked our country. And it wants either to destroy us or to turn us into slaves. It’s just like in The Lord of the Rings – the orcs have come for the people. I have taken up the fight. My weapon is not a gun, but words. I want to tell people the truth about this war. I truly believe that it is the truth that will help bring it to an end.

That is why I stayed. That is why, for two and a half years, I risked my life, travelling along the frontline, helping foreign journalists cover the war, and writing reports and even a book on what I saw. That is why I joined the army, to serve my country. Once again: I could have left. Men of conscription age are not allowed to leave the country, but I have an exemption because I am a father of three children. One thought always stopped me: what kind of life would await me in Europe? The life of a refugee, odd jobs in a restaurant, canteen or care home – just to keep a roof over my head and food on the table? I wouldn’t even be able to support our army. Right now in Ukraine, everything comes down to one simple truth: you are either in the army, for the army, or against the army. That’s the reality of war. It’s as simple as that – there are no grey areas; there isn’t room for doubt or debate.

So, there you have it – that’s what I believe. This doesn’t mean I think our country is perfect or wonderful. There is much I dislike – the way things are run, the behaviour of some politicians and commanders. But I remember John F Kennedy’s words: ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country. I stayed to fight for my country’s freedom. So that one day, when the war is over, you can come back home and live in a peaceful and free country. In the country for whose freedom your father fought. It may sound a little grand. But you cannot speak about values and faith without a certain grandeur.

Sometimes I look at our old photographs and recall the past. Sometimes I remember the first days after you were born. Your mum and I invited many friends over. We were the first in our circle to have a child, and it felt like everyone wanted to congratulate us. One of my friends asked me, “Do you feel like a father yet?” I didn’t know what to say. I was overwhelmed. There was suddenly a new person in my life, a person born out of your mum’s love and mine. My first feelings as a father were wonder, awe and anxiety. I was afraid to hold you in my arms, afraid to bathe you. You were a tiny baby, completely dependent on us. You cried – and your mum nursed you. You fell asleep – and she could finally rest. For a time, her entire world revolved around caring for you. I will never cease to admire this almost sacred power in women – the ability to create life, nurture it and sustain it.

It makes me sad that I have to write this letter at all. It is yet another visible and obvious confirmation that I am not with you. After all, if you were living with me, I wouldn’t have to write any letters. I would simply talk to you every day; you would see how I live, how I interact with people, what I do and why – and that would be enough. Children don’t remember our words, but our actions, and they adopt our way of life. Or they leave it behind, if we behave unworthily. The hardest thing about these years of separation isn’t the shelling, rockets or power cuts. The hardest thing is opening the front door after work and not hearing, “Daddy’s home!”

I wanted to write to you about raising children – but you know more about that than I do now. You’re training to be a nursery teacher; you’re with children every day. All I ask is that you don’t repeat my mistakes with your own children. Spend time playing with them while they’re still small. Be there.

We parents like to think we know which moments shaped our children. We’re usually wrong. It turns out the things that stay with you are the ones where you were watching and we didn’t even know it. Let’s talk about this soon. I have a fortnight’s leave coming, and I’ll be there to see you. I don’t know what you think you’ve learned from me, but I know what I’ve managed to give you: how to read, think and explore the world. And smaller things, like how to ride a bike. We went swimming together, and I decided to find you a coach. Now your breaststroke is faster than mine. You’ve learned languages and left me behind. That’s the greatest joy for me as a father: when my children become better and stronger than me.

Your ever-loving father VladVladyslav, Kyiv region journalist Translated from Ukrainian by Marta Gosovska

I don’t even know where to start this letter, son. I’ve never written to you in prison. It never felt right. Maybe because deep down I didn’t know how to. Maybe I never really learned how to be a father. My mum and dad were never there for me, and I guess I carried that on without meaning to.

But I need to say this straight. I’ve always been proud of you. Always. From the day you were born.

When we first had you, life was mad, but there were beautiful moments too. You walking round the estate in that little denim outfit, beanie on, that bit of baby jewellery I brought back from Miami – you looked the part, proper cool. Maybe that was my ego a bit, but you really did light up the place.

When me and your mum fell out, everything changed. It was chaos and I didn’t handle it well. I thought by leaving, going to America, searching for peace, chasing art, I was doing something right. But really I was just running. I thought you’d be safe with your mum on the estate, but I didn’t see how fast things were changing.

I still remember painting that walkway by your school, the same path you used to walk down every day. When they shut that school, it broke me. That place was the heart of the estate, and when they closed it, it felt like watching the soul of the place die.

And, you know what, Jamie, that’s where so much of this started, I think. The pressure. The madness. Kids from different estates suddenly turning on each other. It used to be a few scuffles, a black eye, a busted lip, and you’d move on. But it changed. Somewhere along the line it went from fights to life and death. From 0 to 100. Either him or me. I never really saw it for what it was until you said it yourself: it was either him or me, Dad. That hit me hard. Because I realised it wasn’t just about violence or choices. It was about there being no alternative. No space. No outlet.

When I was your age, we had youth clubs, breakdancing, graffiti, music. We had places to put all that energy and pain. That’s what saved me, Jamie. Art saved me. It gave me somewhere to throw all that chaos inside me. That’s why I’m still here. But when they closed the schools, shut the youth clubs and cut the funding, what did they expect was gonna happen? They ripped the heart out of those communities and then blamed the heartbeat for bleeding.

So yeah, there’s blood on our hands. But it’s not just yours, son. It’s a whole generation failed. A country that turned its back on you kids and then acted shocked when the streets turned to fire. I don’t say that to make excuses. I just want you to know I see the bigger picture now. And I see you in it, not as a monster, not as a mistake, but as part of something much bigger that went wrong.

Then came the call. The one that said my son had taken someone’s life. Jamie, that broke me in half. My heart just sank. All I could think about were two doors: one with your mum answering, hearing you were wanted for murder, and another mother opening hers, being told her son was dead. Two mothers gone that day. That weight has never left me.

I didn’t visit for a long time because I was angry, not just at you, but at myself. Because when I looked at you, I saw that bright kid who used to paint beside me, the spark in your eyes, the laughter. There’s a photo of us, me leaning over you while you’re painting in your little pyjamas. That one still gets me.

When you came to stay with me in Hertfordshire, I tried to show you my world: the records, the dogs, the art. I thought maybe I could keep you out of trouble, get you into something new. But the streets were always calling, same as they called me when I was young. And when the police came, asking if I’d seen you, saying you were on the run, I can’t even describe the feeling. All that success, the house, the money … none of it mattered. I’d failed where it mattered most.

You know that old saying, you can drag a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. That’s how it felt. I tried, but maybe I didn’t try in the right ways. Maybe I just didn’t know how.

But I’ve seen you changing in there, Jamie. I’ve felt it when we talked. There’s more calm in you now, more understanding. The groups you’re doing, the reading, I can tell it’s helping. That’s why I wanna send you more books. Things that might speak to you like art spoke to me.

You said something the other day that stuck with me, about feeling anxious about getting out. I understand that now. Freedom’s a strange thing after you’ve been trapped for so long. It’s gonna feel weird, but you’ll find your feet. One step at a time, son. You’ll get there.

You’ve always been the stamp of me. Everyone says it. The look, the laugh, the way you move. You’re my son through and through.

And I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I was silent. Even when I didn’t show it.

Maybe next time I’ll start my letter with that, instead of ending with it.

I love you, Jamie, from the bottom of my heart.

When I was your age, I remember being really let down by my dad, because of the way he had let down my mum, and it shook me to my core. Up until that point, I didn’t think that dads could make mistakes. We didn’t speak properly for a while after all that, but then my relationship with him got a lot better, because I then saw him for what he was – a flawed human being who loved us very much. It is partly because of this that I have tried to be as open and as honest with you as I can about my mistakes, flaws and doubts, and many of my flaws I have demonstrated without meaning to – but it all helps!

You mean so much to me. I have seen all three of you grow into different strong, funny, charming, kind and loving personalities, and every single day I look at you and can’t quite believe that you are my sons. While I worry about how you are going to get on, and what pain you might feel in the future, and what heartbreak you might suffer, I never worry about what you are going to put into the world. You are three people who I couldn’t be prouder of.

I have been lucky enough to spend most of my working life doing something I love, and I would implore you to do the same. Work is hard even if you love it, but doing something you love or care about is one of the best ways to spend your life in contentment. I have never dreaded a day’s work, and I really wish that for you. Choose something you care about and chase that thing until you make it happen, at whatever level that may be. We all get caught up in successes and triumphs, but the greatest triumph is doing it at all. The greatest gift I can hope to give to you is to get you to stop caring about outcomes, and throw yourself completely into what you’re doing. That is much more enriching than any awards, fame, money or recognition.

More than that, though, the best advice I can give you is to show love and respect to everyone you come across. If you only think about bettering and helping yourself, I promise you, you will find life unrewarding. If you instead spend your time looking to make connections, supporting people around you, showing people love whether they’re your friends or not, celebrating their successes as if they were your own, you will find happiness follows. What you give to other people will come back to you many times over. That has been my experience, anyway. But please remember, most of the time I’m not sure I’m right.

I am sorry for every day that I spent not being with you. I am sorry for every moment that anything took me away. You are my best friends and I would trade every single achievement I have ever made at work for a breakfast together. Maybe not a breakfast. A holiday. An all-inclusive holiday.

My sons, you have become what you are not because of me, but hopefully not in spite of me. A happy accident maybe. Plus, let’s be honest, Mum is the better one, isn’t she? I know it’s easy to forget, but please make sure you find some way to show gratitude to her. She has spent every waking moment since you were born thinking about the best and most supportive ways to love you. And I think we can agree, she’s smashed it, despite being slightly obsessive about tidiness. I often agree with you on that, but don’t tell her I said that as she and I have to present a united front.

Thank you for being who you are – kind, loving and almost-as-funny-as-your‑dad boys who I’m so beyond proud I played a small part in bringing into the world.

With all of my love A flawed human being who loves you very muchRomesh Ranganathan, comedian

One of my biggest dreams growing up was to become a parent. I imagined reliving what I had with my dad and hoped that one day I could be even half the parent he was to me: someone who was always there for me at all of my competitions, waving a massive union flag.

As I learned more about myself, I thought that dream might never become a reality. But the two of you have brought so much love and joy into your papa’s and daddy’s lives. With so much love, and with the help of your amazing “tummy buddy”, what once felt impossible became real.

We have always tried to be as honest and open with you as possible, answering your questions whenever they come. And if we have one piece of advice to give you, it’s to continue to stay close to your incredible tummy buddy, the wonderful woman who helped make our dream of having a family come true.

I cannot wait to see the people you grow to be, although not too quickly, because time already feels like it’s moving far too fast. You make me so proud to be your papa every single day.

I love you both so much. Your papaTom Daley, Olympian

The place I would always rather be is with you.

I know it can be hard to feel that when I have to be away so much to work. I can’t promise to always be there physically, but I promise you’re always on my mind and in my heart. You are what drives me forwards, and brings me back to anchor me.

No matter what, I am always with you. Always.

The love that I feel for you is unlike anything else. Putting you on my back is my deepest joy. Long after you’re too big for me to carry you, I hope I can still give you that feeling. That you are able to stand taller, see further and climb higher, because of the love that supports you.

Being a man means many different things. You will work out what it means to you. You don’t need to follow anyone else’s template. Just remember the non-negotiables. Self-respect, respect for others, respect for our environment.

It also means facing challenges. That’s part of life. And when you do, remember it’s OK to share your feelings and reach out. Draw strength from your family, friends and community. Vulnerability is brave, beautiful and powerful. We aren’t supposed to pretend it’s all OK. Taking off the armour helps us connect.

Each obstacle is an invitation to deeper connections with others, but also to grow, and to unearth the deepest parts of yourself.

More than anything, our challenges are a reminder that life’s river is one we don’t control, and that there is a greater current guiding our lives. Surrendering to its flow, swimming with the current, can sometimes bring us more peace, power and purpose than fighting it.

I’m always here for you, proud of you, and grateful to be on this adventure with you.

Please make time for joy. Seek it, share it, create it for yourself and others.

You are beloved and worthy of love. BabaRiz Ahmed, actor and rapper

It’s all right being a bloke. Let’s face it, we don’t have the odds stacked against us like women do. But it can still be confusing. So here’s a few wise lessons I’ve learned through 50‑plus years of being stupid.

The first thing is, you can be who and what you want. It’s all good. Life is much more fun if you try things out from different angles and ignore the voices of the cool, telling you, “Nah, no way!” I’ve passed on to you a few things that you’ve accepted already. You know to respect others and to care about the world around you. This is good. I wonder how this will manifest itself as you grow and change, and the world grows and changes around you?

You stand up to prejudice. You’re basically decent and kinda leftwing. You don’t like the Tories. Which is good, because that really is a red line. But back to the first point. I do like football. I also like motorbikes and beer and mountain climbing and other bloke stuff. And I know you quite like some of that, too.

But I also like cheerleading and pole-dancing, long walks, drag, books, foreign films, fake eyelashes, art galleries, socialism, fur coats … I know you hate some of that and can be mortally embarrassed by me, but, believe me, my life is much more fun and interesting for all of it. Try anything you might be intrigued by and sod anyone who tells you it’s weird. Weird is good.

My dad once told me that he realised too late that he was actually a good guy – someone he could like and be proud of. And actually quite good-looking. He told me that I was, too. He told me too late and I believed him even later. I hope I haven’t told you too late and I hope you believe me now.

Believe in yourselves. Love and respect yourselves and others. Stand up to injustice and ignore ignorance. Be who and whatever you want to be.

Mick, trade union organiser and cabaret performer, Sussex