The Practice of Writing Letters to Myself

The art of loving and being loved.

One of the first times I met with my therapist, I told him that I often don’t know how I’m feeling about something until I process it in writing.

I articulate better–stronger–when I am processing pen to paper.

And so we started a letter writing campaign, together.

I wrote letters to be shared out loud and then burned. A practice that is cathartic and empowering.

I wrote letters for just my therapist and I.

I wrote letters to people in my past, to people I hope to meet in the future. To situations and circumstances. I wrote long winded essays that would never see the light of day and they gave me life.

I wrote letter upon letter, never sending one, but keeping them all.

On the first of every month for two years I wrote a letter to myself in a different phase of life. It’s when I started to think about life in two parts: Before and After.

Big events have a way of creating a chasm in your memory that no matter how hard you try you’re never the same person as you were before. You can’t be. You know too much. Or maybe you don’t know enough, yet. But you’re different in ways you never fathomed.

I stopped writing letters to myself during the pandemic, but on the first of December I penned a letter to myself for the first time in almost four years.

I didn’t expect a letter to come from my time curled up in the pre-dawn hours with my journal and black coffee. The practice of speaking to myself–as I am in that moment, not as I wish was or hope to be–is one that helps me remember that I am in a really resplendent chapter of life.

It helps me see what is happening right now, instead of worrying about what may or may not have happened in the past.

So when the letter came flowing from my subconscious, I leaned into it.

---

Hello you,

I caught your reflection in a coffee shop mirror the other day when you were visiting with a friend. Your head was tossed back in laughter and you were smiling.

No, I mean, you were really smiling. From the depth of your soul with your whole body and it was damn good.

It made me happy to see you like that.

I know that it feels tough in new ways this year, but don’t be afraid.

You worry about your path a lot, still.

It’s unique, just like you.

Please embrace it, because the beauty of what you traverse is what gives you the ability to love so fiercely.

Don’t shy away from that uniqueness.

I watch you in the quiet moments and I see the carefully constructed wall.
I worry you’re hiding behind your strength and bravery.
Please don’t.

You’re doing amazing work sharing when you feel safe;
but don’t only share sometimes, share as often as you have breath in your lungs.

Be strong and brave, but also be tender hearted and willing to accept the love of those around you. Because you, dear one, are so loved.

You don’t even recognize it, but you are.

Family and friends care and all you need to do is smile and let them in.

This is the brave part.

Let them see you, all of you.

They already love who you are, so give them what you’ve locked away out of fear or shame or whatever other label you use.

Your path is winding through the hills and valleys of the most beautifully fragrant forest. The intricate roadways and switchbacks are what give you your outlook that allows you to remember the innocence and joy of the Before.
You’ve always chosen the scenic route. It’s good for your inner self. For me.

A reflection of what was as you’re pursuing what has yet to be.

It’s ok that your story isn’t like theirs!
You don’t honestly want it to be, so let that weight go.

Tolkien said it best: “Not all those who wander are lost.”
You are not lost. You’re adventuring.

All of the goodness that you hope and pray for is coming.
Keep your heart open.
Watch for the good in every day.
Those magical moments are transcendent, just like you.

Stay you, wonderful one.