By: Hawi Bussa
Somewhere along the way, we stopped writing letters.
We traded pen and paper for pings and buzzes, compressing the poetry of our feelings into hurried texts, emojis, and heart reactions. We convinced ourselves that faster meant better, that immediacy was intimacy. But beneath the endless scrolling and clicking, something vital and beautiful has been slipping through our fingers — something that deserves to be reclaimed.
Letter writing was never simply about transferring information. It was about connection — a deep, deliberate reaching across space and time to say, I see you. I’m thinking of you. You matter to me.
It was the unhurried act of sitting down, selecting our words thoughtfully, choosing paper that felt just right under our palms, and letting our emotions guide the pen. There’s a vulnerability in handwriting that typing can’t imitate. Every curve of our cursive, every loop and tilt, even the slight tremble when we hesitate to say something tender — it all tells a story beyond the words themselves.
There was once a time when lovers, oceans apart, poured out their longing in handwritten letters that took weeks, even months, to arrive. Soldiers at war clung to letters from home like lifelines, worn thin from being unfolded and read and reread in lonely nights. Friends separated by continents would anticipate the familiar slant of handwriting on an envelope, a tangible piece of their bond. Even today, for those in incarceration, for those isolated by distance, health, or circumstance, a handwritten letter remains a powerful, sacred bridge between hearts.
And yet today, we send abbreviated messages in seconds and wonder why they often feel hollow.
We tap “I miss you” or “love you” into a tiny blue bubble, but the weight of those words is often lost in the speed. We reply distractedly, mid-task, mid-scroll, mid-anything — and though the words are there, the soul behind them sometimes feels absent.
Handwritten letters are different.
They require us to be present.
They invite us to slow down long enough to listen to ourselves — to what we truly feel and what we truly want to say. And in doing so, we give the recipient more than just a message: we give them our time, our attention, our care. In an age where attention has become one of the rarest currencies, what could be more valuable than that?
Even the physicality of a letter speaks: the pressure of the pen, the way the ink sometimes pools when the hand lingers, the soft imperfections that reveal the humanity of the writer. The letter carries our scent, the slight creases from being held too tightly, perhaps a fingerprint smudged in a rush of emotion.
It’s personal in a way a typed message can never replicate. It’s intimate in a way that even a video call, fleeting and glowing on a screen, often struggles to be.
There is an artistry to cursive, too — a dance of lines and loops that mirrors the rhythm of our own thoughts and breath. Our handwriting, in all its unique quirks and flourishes, is an extension of ourselves. And yet, fewer and fewer people today even learn cursive writing. What once was a rite of passage — learning to shape each letter by hand, to string them together into beautiful, flowing words — now risks being forgotten altogether.
Bringing back the art of letter writing isn’t just nostalgia for the past; it’s a conscious act of restoration.
It’s choosing to honor human connection in a world that increasingly pushes us toward speed, efficiency, and surface-level interactions. It’s remembering that some of the most important things in life — love, friendship, trust — are built slowly, thoughtfully, intentionally.
Imagine a world where instead of scrolling endlessly on our phones, we took an afternoon to write to someone we love. Imagine the joy of opening your mailbox to find an envelope addressed by hand, knowing someone thought of you enough to sit down and create something real. Imagine children growing up with handwritten notes tucked into their backpacks, lovers exchanging letters instead of texts, friends preserving their bond with ink on paper instead of fleeting likes and comments.
Maybe it does take longer.
Maybe it asks more of us than a quick reply or a forwarded meme.
But maybe that’s the point.
Some things are worth the time they demand.
Some things — like handwritten letters — are worth saving because they remind us who we are: beings who crave connection, beauty, remembrance.
So let’s bring it back.
Let’s bring back the art of folding our hearts into envelopes, of sealing our affections with a quiet prayer, of sending pieces of ourselves across the distance, trusting that they will be held, opened, and cherished.
Because love, real love, deserves more than a notification.
It deserves to be written down.
It deserves to be remembered.
It deserves to last forever.