At 43, I can clearly see the two distinct chapters of my life: the era of letter writing and the age that followed it. When I was younger, I was a prolific correspondent, reminiscent of a Victorian writer. During those long summer breaks from school, I kept in touch with my friends through heartfelt letters, and when school resumed, I would write to friends I met during the summer months. I maintained a decade-long correspondence with my childhood best friend, Emily, who moved overseas when we were just eight. There was also a boy named Oliver at a boarding school in England whose blue aerograms would make my heart race—he signed each letter with “LOTS of LOVE,” yet seemed indifferent whenever we met in person.
Recently, I unearthed some carefully organized shoeboxes filled with these letters and my personal journals. My journal entries from ages 10 to 18 are even more numerous than my letters, and I must confess, they are much more cringeworthy to revisit. These boxes also contain the notes my friends and I would pass to each other during class on scraps of loose-leaf paper. I still remember the letters from my first boyfriend, who had a touch of the German Romantic about him, even at 15. His all-caps, cramped handwriting starkly contrasts with my flowing, copperplate cursive. Thankfully, my letters to him seem to have vanished, but his still make me blush every time I read them.
This collection of memories from my past stirs a strong emotion in me now that I’m in my 40s. The silly, poignant reminders of friendships and crushes are treasures. I feel fortunate to have loved and been loved so intensely, even as a teenager. These letters and notes serve as anchors to a past that is fading rapidly, especially as my own children approach the tumultuous yet beautiful years of adolescence.
Yet, the most profound emotion these shoeboxes invoke is a sense of loss. No one—neither I nor my children—will create such an emotional archive again. Digital communication, while convenient, lacks the care and effort that made our letters and diaries so special. Social media can’t replicate the heartfelt intimacy of a handwritten letter. No blog, Facebook post, or Instagram feed has the power of a personal letter or diary entry to encapsulate a moment in time. I wonder if we’ll even revisit our digital records in a decade or three. Will we really scroll back through 20 years of Facebook updates? Much of what is shared online is for an audience that feels almost anonymous. In contrast, our letters were crafted for one person’s eyes alone or, at times, just for our own reflection.
My generation sits perfectly at the crossroads of two communication eras. We are the last to truly understand what has been lost. My children will likely never write letters, save for perhaps the occasional note from summer camp—which we will promptly share on social media. They won’t have handwritten class notes to remind them of their quirky friendships or boxes full of scented love letters that can still evoke butterflies in midlife. They won’t have the excruciatingly honest journal entries that capture the emotional rollercoaster of their teenage years. I’m grateful that I do, because looking back at my own words—and the words written to me—offers a precious and bittersweet glimpse into who I was and who I have become.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, I explore the nostalgia of letter writing and how it contrasts with today’s digital communication. The personal, heartfelt nature of handwritten letters has been lost in the age of social media, leaving a void in emotional archives that younger generations may never experience. As I look back at my childhood correspondence, I cherish these memories and lament the loss of such intimate forms of connection.
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