03.06.2025
She said "you’re the last real man I know": A letter on manhood, meaning, and the code
A New York reader reflects on how GC reshaped his idea of manhood—from surface success to soulful presence. A moving letter about elegance, restraint, and returning to what matters.

Toto Wolf (photo for illustration only)
Photo credit: Mercedes AMG F1 Team
Letter from James W.
Greetings GC,
It was late. The kind of late where the coffee has mellowed, and the silence between two people stops being awkward and starts being honest.
She sat across from me—barefoot now, curled into the corner of the couch—and looked at me in that way women do when they’re half-joking but fully revealing something. “You’re the last real man I know,” she said.
I didn’t know what to do with that. I laughed, awkwardly. Tried to brush it off. But the words stayed. They echoed. They unsettled me.
Because a year ago, I don’t think she would’ve said it.
Back then, I was all edges. Polished, yes. Successful, certainly. But underneath the tailored suits and well-lit profile photos was a man in retreat. From meaning. From vulnerability. From becoming. I wasn’t a bad man; I was just a blurred one.
Then, one evening, scrolling between market charts and mindless headlines, I landed on GC. I don’t even remember which article first hooked me. Maybe it was the one about restraint. Or the piece on how elegance isn’t fashion—it’s discipline. But I remember this: I kept reading. And something in me began to shift.
You weren’t selling style. You were reminding us of code. Of how to be solid in a world of surface.
And so, little by little, I began to return to things I thought were lost. I started listening—really listening. I said “thank you” to baristas and meant it. I re-read Camus. I ironed my shirts. I picked up flowers—not to impress, but to offer softness.
None of it was grand. But all of it felt like a return to something whole. Something I had been missing, or maybe had never quite grown into until now.
So when she looked at me that night, glass in hand, and said those words—I didn’t respond right away. I just smiled. Not the cocky kind, but the quiet kind. Because I knew I hadn’t earned those words overnight. They had been built. Word by word. Step by step. Article by article.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: thank you.
Thank you for writing like the world isn’t a lost cause. For reminding us that being a man is not a posture, but a practice. For giving voice to the men who are still trying: not to be perfect, but to be present.
You’re doing more than you know.