Heidi Klum’s 20-year-old son turns heads with uncanny resemblance to his dad

Emerson Solomon

When Heidi Klum stepped onto the red carpet for the Project Hail Mary premiere with a strikingly tall young man, many onlookers jumped to the wrong conclusion. At first glance, it looked as if she had arrived with a new, much younger boyfriend — a rumor that spread instantly.

The confusion was understandable. The event, held March 18 at Lincoln Center Plaza in New York City, drew major celebrities, and Heidi’s companion appeared confident and polished in a light beige suit. Online chatter quickly erupted, with fans wondering if she was introducing a new partner.

But those familiar with her family recognized him immediately. The young man beside her was her eldest son, 20-year-old Henry Samuel — and his appearance made as much of an impact as the film premiere itself.

For many, Henry’s transformation was the biggest surprise. Once known as a quiet child trailing behind his famous parents, he has grown into someone who commands attention. He now carries himself with confidence, shaped partly by the world he grew up in and partly by his own developing sense of identity.

Henry has already begun stepping into the fashion world. At 19, he made his runway debut at Paris Fashion Week, wearing a dramatic all-black suit. Soon after, he appeared on his first magazine cover in Hunger, styled in a bold, open-chested look that signaled his arrival as a young model to watch.

His red-carpet outfit — an oversized beige suit, patterned sheer shirt, and matching scarf — showed an easy command of style. Standing beside Heidi, who wore a crisp all-white suit, the two looked effortlessly coordinated.

Online, fans were stunned by Henry’s height, his resemblance to both Heidi and Seal, and how naturally he fit into the spotlight. Many commented that they had mistaken him for Heidi’s partner before realizing the truth.

What stood out most was not just his appearance, but the sense that Henry Samuel is stepping out of the background — and beginning to make his own mark.

https://primedailys.com/heidi-klums-20-year-old-son-turns-heads-with-uncanny-resemblance-to-his-dad/

Why do people exercise? It's pointless

Jack

Studied at University of OxfordAuthor has 944 answers and 15.9M answer views1y

Long term exercise is one of the most beneficial daily actions anyone can undertake both physically and mentally.

Whether walking, running, tennis, other sports or going to the gym, exercise is consistently the best way to manage your weight, increase mobility and ensure a healthier future. On the extreme end of exercise is gymnastics which I was very much into for a long time.

I was not the best gymnast, only taking up the discipline as an amateur, but it became a great passion of mine. It is the only sport I watch at the Olympics, especially on the rings. For an hour or two each day, my world focused into simple but strenuous exercises.

These photographs are from the great Olympian Eleftherios Petrounias.

Rings dangle above as my mind primes into leaping up and grasping them. On the wooden rings, my hands rearrange their position into an abnormal cusp which grips them so my body can fling upwards. Once I’ve got my hands in the right position, I dangle. The sensation is beautiful as I prepare to hurl myself into the air and fly.

Tightening my body as much as possible and keeping my posture straight, I accelerate into the air with all my strength, forcing my body against gravity. Up on the rings, often dauntingly high, I’m levitating above the earth.

Still gripping the rings, I drop and rise again, throwing myself above and pushing my body into all manners of strange positions that temporarily defy gravity. Some of these positions are very strenuous. They require my legs to extend outwards and sometimes my whole body lays horizontally which increases the surface area gravity pushes against.

But the freedom I feel on rings and bars untangles my body and mind after a working day. I would also add how these exercises are injury prone and I’ve sometimes spent 3 months recovering from accidents, sitting with my arms crossed as I wait to heal. Even so, this sport is beautiful and those who master it have extraordinary willpower. They exemplify the ideal of moving beautifully and seamlessly which was the original Greek objective behind gymnastics and calisthenics.

Exercise is not just about keeping our body healthy, but channelling our time into pursuits which make us into better men and women. It gives us goals to reach on a daily basis, whether increasing our running speed, lifting up heavier weights or performing a strange feat of movement. All of these goals require discipline and hard work.

Christopher Johnson McCandless

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In April 1992, a 24-year-old man named Christopher Johnson McCandless walked alone into the Alaskan wilderness carrying little more than a small-caliber rifle, a ten-pound bag of rice, and a guide to edible plants. He had already given away his entire life savings of about $24,000 to Oxfam, burned his identification, and abandoned his car after it was caught in a flash flood. He no longer answered to the name Chris McCandless. He called himself Alexander Supertramp, a wanderer chasing something the modern world had taught him to ignore.

Two years earlier, he had graduated from Emory University with a bright future ahead. His family was wealthy. Opportunities were plentiful. But Chris felt trapped by the expectations of success — the career, the money, the comfortable life that seemed to demand he surrender his soul in exchange. One day, without warning or goodbye to his parents or sister, he simply vanished.

He headed west, living on the road, working odd jobs just long enough to buy the bare essentials, then moving on. He hitchhiked, camped, and read voraciously — Tolstoy, Jack London, Thoreau. People who crossed his path remembered a bright, charismatic young man who carried ideas instead of plans. He spoke of escaping the “climax to the cosmic battle within,” of finding truth beyond the comforts society offered.

His ultimate destination was Alaska — the last true frontier. In April 1992, he hiked deep into the snowy wilderness north of Mount McKinley. After weeks of walking, he discovered an abandoned Fairbanks City Transit System bus, number 142, which he nicknamed the “Magic Bus.” It became his shelter for the next 112 days.

He hunted small game, gathered berries, and tried to live as self-reliantly as possible. His journals show a young man who felt alive in a way he never had in the structured world he left behind. He wrote of joy found not in human relationships alone, but in everything around him — the rivers, the mountains, the silence.

But the wild does not negotiate.

As summer turned to fall, game grew scarce. His body began to waste away. In his final entries, the once-vibrant traveler sounded weaker, though his words remained poetic. One of his last messages, taped to the bus door, was a desperate plea for help:

“I am injured, near death, and too weak to hike out of here. I am all alone, this is no joke. In the name of God, please remain to save me.”

Help did not arrive in time.

In August 1992, two moose hunters discovered his body inside the bus. He had been dead for about two weeks. Beside him lay his journals and a camera. The final photo on the roll was the now-famous self-portrait: Chris standing in the doorway of the bus, smiling widely, one hand raised in a final wave. Even as he starved, he looked at peace. One of his last notes read:

“I have had a happy life and thank the Lord. Goodbye and may God bless all!”

Investigators later debated the exact cause of death. Some believed it was simple starvation. Others suggested he may have accidentally poisoned himself by eating toxic wild potato seeds. Whatever the medical explanation, the deeper truth was clear: a young man who had everything the modern world considers success chose instead to walk away from it all in search of something real.

His story might have remained a quiet tragedy known only to a handful of people, but in 1996 Jon Krakauer’s book Into the Wild brought it to the world. Sean Penn’s 2007 film adaptation, starring Emile Hirsch, introduced a new generation to Chris’s philosophy of extreme self-reliance and his belief that joy emanates from everything around us if we slow down enough to see it.

The abandoned bus, Fairbanks 142, became a pilgrimage site for many who felt the same restlessness. For years hikers made the dangerous journey to the “Magic Bus” to pay respects, sometimes leaving notes or small tokens. In 2020, the bus was removed by the Alaskan government due to safety concerns and the growing number of rescue operations required for unprepared visitors.

Christopher McCandless was not the first person to walk away from society, and he will not be the last. But his story continues to resonate because it asks a question that still troubles many: What if the life we are told to want is not the life we were meant to live?

He once told an old friend he met on the road:

“You are wrong if you think Joy emanates only or principally from human relationships. God has placed it all around us. It is in everything and anything we might experience.”

That final photograph — the young man smiling in the doorway of the rusted bus, hand raised in farewell — remains one of the most haunting images of modern rebellion. It captures both the beauty and the cost of choosing the wild over the comfortable, the real over the expected.

Christopher Johnson McCandless walked away from everything the world calls success so he could find something he believed was more important.

He found it.

And in the end, even as his body failed, he looked at peace.

Robert Redford

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On September 16, 2025, at the age of 89, Robert Redford passed away peacefully in his sleep at his home in the mountains of Sundance, Utah — the place he loved most, surrounded by those he loved.

That final morning began as so many of his days had: quietly, deliberately, with the kind of stillness he had spent a lifetime seeking amid the noise of Hollywood. Wrapped in a navy wool cardigan, he sat by the open sliding door as the first pale orange light touched the ridgeline. He pointed toward it and said softly, “Look at that light.” Those were among his first words of the day, and some of his last.

He had turned 89 the previous month. Mobility had become difficult, but he still insisted on sitting upright, a blanket across his legs, a warm mug of coffee placed nearby though he sipped little. He spent much of the morning with a well-worn copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in his lap. Too tired for long conversation, he gestured for a favorite passage to be read aloud — the one about quality as a lived experience rather than an abstract idea. He nodded slowly, touched the cover, and whispered, “That’s how I tried to live.”

In the late morning, his daughter Shauna helped him outside. A wool shawl draped over his shoulders, he sat facing the sun, listening to the wind move through the aspen trees. In his lap rested a small journal filled with haikus, film sketches, and personal notes. One line read, “If I disappear, look for me in moving water.” He tapped that page twice and looked up at Shauna without needing to speak.

Lunch was simple — mashed fruit and a spoonful of soup. As she fed him, Shauna recalled him looking directly at her and saying, “You’ve been sunlight.” She didn’t press for explanation. She simply smiled and squeezed his hand.

By afternoon, more of his children had gathered. The room remained deliberately quiet, filled with the kind of presence Redford had always valued over words.

One granddaughter, Dylan, read aloud from A River Runs Through It. When she reached the line, “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it,” Redford blinked twice, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

His final words came around 7:50 p.m. He opened his eyes briefly and said, “Be brave. Stay kind. Make art.” Minutes later, he passed away in his bed at Sundance Mountain Resort — the place where he had poured decades of his life into nurturing independent film, environmental causes, and a simpler way of being.

The following morning, his family released a shared statement: “He believed in through-lines. If you ever crossed paths with him, you carried a piece of his story with you.”

In his last weeks, Redford had recorded a private message for his great-grandchildren. In it, he said, “This world can overwhelm. But if you slow down and sit under a tree long enough, it’ll tell you everything. And if you forget who you are, draw something. Or go walk alone. Nature remembers you.”

There were no cameras. No formal goodbyes. No spotlight. Just the quiet passing of a man who had lived through image but sought meaning in invisibility.

His family honored his wishes: no large public memorial. Instead, they planted trees. Let the wind carry the rest.

Robert Redford left holding stillness in one hand and sunlight in the other, choosing presence over applause until the very end.