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Letters from Days Gone By
At 43, I can distinctly separate my life into two phases: the letter-writing days and the post-letter-writing days. Back when I was younger, I was an avid correspondent, sending letters like I was in some old-timey novel. I wrote to my school friends during those long summers apart, and then I would reach out to my summer pals when school rolled back around. One of my best friends from third grade moved overseas when we were just 8, and we kept up our letter exchange for a whole decade before reuniting. I even wrote to a boy in an English boarding school who sent me blue aerograms that made my heart race when they arrived. He always ended his letters with “LOTS of LOVE,” but in person, he acted like we were barely acquaintances.
Recently, I stumbled upon shoeboxes filled with these letters and my personal journals. My journal entries from ages 10 to 18 are way more plentiful than my letters and definitely a lot more cringeworthy. Those boxes also contain the sneaky notes my friends and I passed in class, scrawled on bits of loose-leaf paper. Among them are letters from my first boyfriend, who had a bit of a German Romantic flair even at 15. His handwriting was a cramped all-caps print, which made my flowing cursive stand out even more. Thankfully, my letters to him are MIA, but his still make me blush just thinking about them.
This collection of my past has a profound impact on me now that I’m in my 40s. These sweet, silly, and sometimes painful reminders of friendships, love, and pivotal moments are truly precious. I was fortunate to experience such passionate relationships as a teen. Yet, the strongest feeling these shoeboxes evoke is a sense of loss—knowing that neither I nor my children will create such an emotional archive again. While digital communication is quick and convenient, it lacks the heartfelt effort that made our letters and diaries so special. They captured emotions in a way that social media simply can’t replicate.
No blog post, Facebook update, or Instagram story holds the same weight as a handwritten letter or diary entry that freezes a moment in time. Can you really imagine scrolling through 20 years of Facebook posts in the future? Plus, much of what we share online is intended for a faceless audience. These days, when you write something, you don’t know who will see it. Even text messages can be shared in an instant, and we constantly remind our kids to be cautious once they get smartphones. It’s a far cry from the intimate writing we used to do, meant for just one person or even for ourselves alone.
My generation is perfectly positioned between two communication eras. We are the last to truly understand what has been lost. My kids will likely never write letters, except maybe for a brief note from summer camp—which will probably end up on social media. They won’t have those funny old class notes or shoeboxes full of scented love letters that take their breath away in middle age or cringe-worthy journal entries recounting their emotional rollercoasters. I’m grateful I have those memories because reflecting on who I was back then and how far I’ve come is both precious and bittersweet.
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In summary, it’s clear that the art of letter-writing has faded, leaving a void in our emotional archives. The handwritten words of the past carry significant weight that our modern digital communications simply can’t match, making it all the more important to cherish those memories.