Why I Still Love to Send Snail Mail

I love writing letters — and having letter-writing friends.

For over 15 years, I kept up an ongoing correspondence with my husband’s grandmother, Julia, until her death in 2008. We were from different generations, but we found common ground in our letters, discussing our shared love of books and travel. There was something especially meaningful about that correspondence between two people who never lived in the same eras, but who connected over their love for the same person. We built a lasting friendship through our love of the written word.

I also recently started writing letters to Holly, my former supervisor at the library I worked at 20 years ago. We’ve always exchanged Christmas cards, but I’m delighted our correspondence has grown beyond the holidays. I find myself smiling when I receive something from her because her dry wit comes through so clearly that I can practically hear her voice when I’m reading her letters.

Other friends sporadically surprise me with postcards from their travels and I delight in finding just the right postcards to share from my own adventures. The ones I receive end up tucked into the corners of mirrors and picture frames, snapshots of places that I may never visit or may visit one day.

I love a letter, or card, for every day of the year.

While I try to send holiday cards every year, my list is smaller than it once was — and my timeline is longer. Sometimes I start the week of Thanksgiving and send out a slow trickle of cards every week through the end of the year. Other years, I send New Year’s cards, which everyone seems to enjoy because they actually have time to read them and respond with their own.

I can’t resist vintage Valentine’s cards or spooky Halloween cards, but I don’t need a special occasion to reach out. As much as I love receiving mail, there’s something uniquely fulfilling about writing letters, too. The words themselves are rarely the point and I’m not writing to be profound. Most notes are simple — a small acknowledgment of a special event or a note from my daily life — but they’re a tangible form of connection that makes me happy.

In many ways, letter writing feels like a small rebellion against the speed of modern communication. Texts arrive instantly and demand immediate attention and emails feel more like work than pleasure. Social media lets me skim the lives of many people at once, but the experience can feel shallow, even when it’s constant.

Letter-writing makes me slow down.

There is a physicality to letters that I’ve come to value that can’t be duplicated through any other form of communication. I rarely open a letter and move on immediately. I set it aside until I can sit down with it properly, giving it the kind of attention it was written with. I do the same when I write — finding a quiet moment in my day, even if it’s only a few minutes, to sit down with pen and paper. The deliberate act of writing a letter by hand commands my attention in the way a quickly-sent text can’t.

And, as digital communication becomes faster and more pervasive, a counter-movement toward slower, more intentional forms of connection has started to build. Among my own social circles, I’ve seen a renewed interest in handwritten correspondence, along with a broader return to physical media — books, magazines, puzzles, knitting, and other rituals that require sustained attention.

Those tangible pieces of my relationships have an impact that lasts longer than an email or text. I use them to mark my place in books, tuck them into my bedside drawer, and slip them into the side pocket of a favorite tote. When I rediscover them later, I savor the experience all over again, hearing the voice of someone who was thinking of me once, even when they’re no longer here.

How many of you still send out snail mail? Let us know in the comments below.