At 43 years old, I can distinctly separate my life into two phases: the letter-writing age and the digital age. As a child, I was like a modern-day Victorian, churning out letters like they were going out of style. I kept in touch with my school friends during those long, lazy summers, and then I’d write to my summer pals while stuck in the classroom. I even corresponded with my best friend from third grade, who moved overseas when we were just eight; we kept our friendship alive through letters for a whole decade before finally reuniting. And let’s not forget the boy I was smitten with, who attended a boarding school in England. He’d send me blue aerograms that made my heart flutter, always signing off with “HUGS and KISSES” while acting like we were mere acquaintances in real life.
Recently, I stumbled upon some shoeboxes, meticulously labeled, filled with all these letters and my personal journals. These journals, chronicling my oh-so-eventful years from 10 to 18, are even more abundant than my letters—and let me tell you, they’re far more cringe-worthy. Within these boxes are notes that I and my friends passed to each other during class, hastily written on scraps of loose-leaf paper. Among the treasures are letters from my first boyfriend, who had a flair for the dramatic, even at 15. His handwriting, a cramped all-caps scrawl, was a stark contrast to my flowing cursive. Thankfully, my letters to him have vanished, but his still make me blush.
Looking back at these relics from my past stirs up a whirlpool of emotions in my 40s. They remind me of the friendships, the loves, and the pivotal moments that shaped me. I was so fortunate to have such sweet, hilarious, and loyal friends. How lucky I was to experience love and passion as a teenager! These letters and journals anchor me to a past that feels like it’s slipping away as my own children prepare to navigate their own tumultuous teenage years.
Yet, the most profound emotion these shoeboxes elicit is a sense of loss. No one—neither I nor my children—will likely ever create an emotional archive like this again. Digital communication, while convenient, lacks the personal touch that made our letters and diaries so special. There’s simply no comparison between a heartfelt letter and a social media post. No blog, Facebook timeline, or Instagram story can capture a moment in time like a handwritten note; I can’t fathom us revisiting our digital footprints decades from now. Will we scroll through 20 years of Facebook posts? And so much of what we share online is meant for an audience, not just for one special person. Today’s text messages can be shared with a few clicks, a caution we instill in our kids from the moment they get their first smartphones. It’s a far cry from the intimate writing we did for just one pair of eyes—or even for ourselves.
Our generation, now stepping into middle age, perfectly bridges these two communication worlds. We are the last ones who truly understand what has been lost. Our children will probably never write letters, except for the rare gem we might receive from summer camp, which we’d promptly share on social media. They won’t have notes from classmates that evoke memories of old friendships. They won’t have shoeboxes brimming with scented love letters that still make them feel giddy or excruciating journal entries that capture their teenage angst. I cherish my own collection because seeing my past self in the rearview mirror of my words is both precious and bittersweet—it’s a reminder of who I was and how far I’ve come.
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Summary
The author reflects on the stark contrast between the era of handwritten letters and the current age of digital communication. She reminisces about her prolific letter-writing as a child, the emotional weight of those letters, and the profound loss felt knowing that her children may never create similar archives. The piece laments the fleeting nature of digital communication compared to the heartfelt connections fostered through letters and journals.