Dear reader, I have a confession. On the first of August I muted every group chat on my phone. Not left — I am not that brave — just muted, for thirty days.
The first week felt like stepping off a moving walkway: a strange lurch, a sense that the world was still going without me. By the second week I had written four letters. Actual letters, with stamps.
Some conversations deserve an envelope, not a notification.
What I learned
Friends replied slowly, and at length. One sent a pressed flower. Another wrote three pages about her grandmother’s orchard. None of it would have survived the scroll of a chat.
I am back in the chats now, mostly. But I keep a stack of envelopes on the desk, and I hope you will consider writing to someone this week. If you need an address, ours is in the footer.
