At 43, I can distinctly separate my life into two eras: the age of letter writing and the time that followed. In my youth, I engaged in a vibrant and extensive written correspondence reminiscent of the Victorian era. I penned letters to friends from school during the long summer breaks, and to summer companions throughout the school year. For a whole decade, I exchanged letters with my best friend from third grade, who moved overseas when we were just 8. I even wrote to a boy who attended an English boarding school, whose blue aerograms made my heart race upon arrival. He signed each letter with “LOTS of LOVE,” yet in person, he acted as if we barely knew each other.
Recently, I stumbled upon shoeboxes meticulously labeled, filled with letters and my personal journals. My journal entries, chronicling the seemingly mundane years between 10 and 18, far surpass my correspondence in volume and are even more mortifying to revisit. These boxes also contain notes my friends and I discreetly passed during class on torn pieces of paper. Among these, I found letters from my first boyfriend, who had a flair for the German Romantic, even at 15. His handwriting was an all-caps, cramped print that starkly contrasted with my flowing cursive. Thankfully, my letters to him have vanished, while his remain, still capable of making me blush.
Looking back at this treasure trove of memories evokes mixed emotions in my 40s. These letters, filled with nostalgia, humor, and the intensity of youthful love, remind me of the deep bonds I forged during those formative years. How fortunate I was to experience such heartfelt connections as a teenager. These artifacts anchor me to a past that feels increasingly distant as my own children approach the tumultuous yet beautiful phase of adolescence.
However, the predominant feeling these shoeboxes stir in me is sorrow that neither I nor my children will ever craft such emotional archives again. While digital communication is swift, it lacks the earnestness and dedication that rendered our letters and diaries so cherished. The intimacy of a handwritten letter or diary entry is something social media cannot replicate.
No blog post, Facebook update, or Instagram story can capture a moment in time with the same weight as a handwritten note. I find it hard to believe that we will look back at our digital footprints decades from now. Will we really scroll through years of Facebook posts? Moreover, much of our online communication is intended for a semi-anonymous audience, unlike the personal nature of writing meant solely for one person’s eyes or for my own reflection.
My generation stands at the crossroads of two communication eras. We are the last to fully appreciate what has been lost. Our children may write a few letters—perhaps a camp note that we will promptly share online—but they won’t have keepsakes of classroom notes or shoeboxes filled with love letters that can still make their hearts race in adulthood. They won’t experience the angst and joy of reading their own adolescent journal entries, chronicling their emotional upheavals. I cherish the ability to glimpse into my past through my words and the words written to me; it’s both a precious and bittersweet experience.
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Summary:
The author reflects on her past experiences with letter writing, contrasting it with today’s digital communication landscape. The nostalgia for handwritten correspondence evokes feelings of loss, especially as her children approach adolescence, a time when such emotional archives will likely be absent. The article emphasizes the depth and intimacy of letters, which cannot be replicated in modern digital forms of communication.