I’ve written a fair share of letters in my day. It’s the romantic in me who feels written words, those that are so exquisitely accurate in their portrayal of love and loss, are the pinnacle of my existence. If I love someone, I have to write to them; it’s instinctive. This doesn’t mean, however, that I send all or even the majority of the letters I write. That is the coward in me, too afraid people will hold me to the words I write at a specific moment in time, too embarrassed to have a crowd of recipients holding physical evidence of my admiration for them.
As a general rule, the best course of action for most situations is to be honest and share your feelings with others. If you love them, admire them, miss them, are happy for them, or want to let them know you’re thinking of them, then, by all means, send them a letter! As long as you are not hurting anyone by sending this letter, there is no reason to be ashamed of your feelings. More importantly, you could make someone’s day. For me, nothing is more touching than receiving a handwritten letter from someone I care about. When I die, bury me in a coffin full of all the letters written to me.
A different truth is, of course, that life goes on. People hurt one another, lose touch, or slowly fade into the background of one’s existence. Things are constantly fluctuating, changing in ways we can’t prepare for. We are so busy! Work, school, internships; new friends, new subway lines, new bars; a big love, a big house, a big quarter-life crisis. Our minds are often scrambled, just trying to get through the motions of everyday life and enjoy it as it comes. Then, it creeps up on you, that random Friday afternoon. You hear a song you haven’t heard in a while, and it brings you back to a few years ago. Time freezes as you relive a life that you are so far removed from you wonder if it was ever even yours. Now, you’ve found yourself missing people you shouldn’t, realizing the window of opportunity to reach out has long passed, rightfully so. You’re flooded with nostalgia, rose-colored and inflated. Pouring your heart and soul out to them now would be more than wrong.
Alexa, play ‘Bad Idea, Right?’ by Olivia Rodrigo. Let this be a call to all the dewy-eyed girlies: Do NOT listen to that voice in your head telling you to make a harmless phone call to people who’ve hurt you. You have an alternative, and while it may not be as riveting of a story to tell at the cute cocktail spill-all, it is the healthier thing to do. The past is in the past, and you will never get it back, nor should you want to! More importantly, you are not the person you once were, and that is a good thing. Understand, too, that sometimes it is simply fun to reminisce, to repaint the past with the fresh perspective of a refined frontal lobe, but that doesn’t mean you should run with your naivety, expecting a new rendition of your past to become your reality.
Such circumstances as these are the perfect times to write a letter that is purposefully intended to not be sent anywhere. You can say everything you want to say, feel everything you want to feel, and simply tear it up (or burn it, which is thrilling!) when you’re done reading it over. There’s no regret, no embarrassment, no hurting others by bringing unsolicited memories back into fruition, and no risking your current peace. This is your chance to leave the “But What If?” to die.
That being said, my favorite place to write letters I’ll never send is in my journal. Sometimes I will rip the pages out, crumble them, and toss them in the recycling bin. Other times I will leave them in my journal to look back on. I have also burned a few. Occasionally, I type them up and pretend I’m Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, but I usually just put a lock on the document until I feel I’ve outgrown whatever I wrote down, and then I trash it. I’ve even dropped a few letters in the mailbox with no return or send address. One, I’m not proud of is when I sent a letter down a river, which was environmentally careless, but I was desperate for some kind of cinematic, main character energy to justify my emotions (Ah, to be 18 again). Ultimately, it doesn’t matter where you write your letter or in what way you discard it afterward. As long as you get the cathartic release you need, you’ve done yourself some good, and you should be proud.
Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is also a teacher, currently specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, reading and writing, and watching bad television.
