At 43, I find it fascinating to reflect on the two distinct phases of my life: the era of letter writing and the post-letter writing period. During my youth, I maintained a vibrant written correspondence reminiscent of a Victorian era. I would pen letters to school friends throughout the long summer breaks and to my summer acquaintances during the school year. I even exchanged letters with my best friend from third grade, who moved overseas when we were just eight. Our correspondence lasted for a decade until we finally reunited in person. I remember writing to a boy at an English boarding school, who would send me blue aerograms that made my heart race upon their arrival; he always signed off with “LOTS of LOVE,” yet seemed distant whenever we met face to face.
Recently, I stumbled upon neatly labeled shoeboxes filled with these letters and my personal journals. My journals, chronicling the seemingly mundane years from age 10 to 18, are even more abundant than my letters—though rereading them can be quite embarrassing. The shoeboxes also contain the notes I discreetly exchanged with friends during class, scrawled on torn sheets of loose-leaf paper. Among them are letters from my first boyfriend, whose handwriting was an all-caps, cramped script that starkly contrasted with my own flourish. Thankfully, my letters to him have vanished, but his remain, still capable of making me blush.
These artifacts from my past evoke a profound sense of nostalgia now that I am in my 40s. They remind me of the friendships, love, and significant moments I experienced. I was fortunate to have such loyal friends and to have loved deeply, even as a teenager. Each letter, note, and journal entry serves as a connection to a past that feels increasingly distant as my own children approach the tumultuous yet wonderful years of adolescence.
However, the most poignant feeling these shoeboxes stir within me is a deep sense of loss. I realize that neither I nor my children will likely create such emotional archives again. While digital communication is undeniably efficient, it lacks the heartfelt diligence that made our letters and diaries so treasured. No blog post, Facebook update, or Instagram story can encapsulate a moment in time the way a handwritten letter or diary entry can. I often wonder if we will revisit our digital footprints decades from now. Are we genuinely going to scroll through 20 years of Facebook posts? Moreover, much of our online communication is directed at a nearly anonymous audience, a stark contrast to the intimate nature of writing meant for one person’s eyes or for my own reflection.
As someone straddling the line between two eras of communication, I recognize that my generation is among the last to truly understand what has been lost. Our children will likely never engage in letter writing, aside from perhaps a brief note from summer camp—which we will promptly share online. They won’t possess class notes to remind them of their amusing friendships or shoeboxes filled with fragrant love letters that might still take their breath away in middle age, nor will they have the excruciating journal entries chronicling the emotional rollercoaster of adolescence. I treasure these remnants of my past, as they allow me to see my younger self reflected in the rearview mirror of my own words, highlighting both who I was then and who I have become.
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In summary, the shift from a letter-writing culture to digital communication has created a significant emotional void. The artifacts of the past—letters, notes, and journals—serve as cherished reminders of love, friendship, and formative experiences that are unlikely to be replicated in today’s digital landscape.