Letters don't always mean words.

“I bet you can’t sit in this chair for an hour,” my uncle said, grinning, while somewhere behind him another uncle held one of those big 80s video cameras, the kind with the bright light that flooded the whole room and made everything feel important. “If you do, I’ll give you a quarter.” A whole quarter. I remember how impossible it felt, trying to stay still and quiet in a room like that, full of cousins, laughter, wrapping paper flying, voices everywhere, the kind of noise

Not every story is meant to be posted online. Some stories are meant to arrive quietly in your mailbox. I’ve been writing letters again. Real ones. The kind that arrive in your mailbox instead of your inbox. The kind you open slowly at the kitchen table while the coffee is still warm. Some of the letters will be reflections about the strange, beautiful work of being human. Some will be stories about the small moments that shape us. And every so often, tucked quietly inside, t

Sometimes the only light we have is the one we decide to leave on for each other. The past couple of years of my life have been filled with more beginning agains than I ever expected. Some days felt hopeful, some felt ridiculous, and some felt downright hard. But in the middle of it all, I kept coming back to something simple—writing. I wrote everyday and tried to make sense of what exactly it meant to begin again. This lead me to realize, I love giving and receiving letters.