Why I Write Letters But Never Send Them

To say or not to say—that is the real question.

I've recently discovered the art of unsent letters and this ritual has become my personal litmus test: is what I want to say worth the wait?

I've noticed my need to have the last word, a desire born from wanting to be understood, to be seen. It's the compulsion to articulate my thoughts in a way that feels definitive, perhaps even perfect.

Of course, I’m always tempted by the illusion of control. Aren’t we all? Drawing a seemingly clean line between what is within our power and what isn't. Realistically, that line is blurry, if it’s even a line at all, and especially when it comes to relationships. And yet, when a relationship ends—whether it’s because of something we did, something they said, or something more ambiguous, like fate—that line between control and surrender becomes even murkier.

Taking a moment to appreciate some branded stationery.

THE PROCESS

The beauty of writing a letter lies in its pace. Unlike a text, where my emotions are broadcasted and answered in seconds, a letter requires commitment—not just to the act of writing but to the two-week journey it takes to reach someone. If I can imagine waiting those 14 days without a pang of regret or anxiety, it's a sign that my words carry weight. If not, the letter stays safely tucked away in my desk, serving as my private catharsis.

There's something profound in this process—romantic even! I go so far as to write the address, seal it, stamp it, as if the only remaining step is to send it. For me, the satisfaction of the notes app rant we all know too well just isn't enough. I need to feel the paper, the ache in my hands as my feelings turn to words, actualized on a page. This ritual forces me to question the urgency of my emotions and the importance of my message. In our age of instant gratification, we've forgotten a time when our words had to transcend time. The delay lends depth to my thoughts, saving me from impulsive, regret-filled texts and unnecessary drama.

There isn't an art to letting go, to leaving things unsaid; the desire to control others' perception of ourselves ends up controlling us. I often envy those whose words don't bubble over. For the rest of us, the struggle is a poignant reminder of just how little control we have—and why that's okay.