So, my guy, he went off and joined the military. Bam. Just like that, everything changed. We went from seeing each other all the time to… well, not. Phone calls were a luxury, and you never knew when they’d happen or how long they’d last. Emails were okay, when he could get to a computer, but they just didn’t feel the same, you know? Letters, actual paper letters, that’s what felt real. That felt like something he could hold onto.
But man, writing them? That was a whole other story. At first, I’d just sit there, pen in hand, staring at a blank piece of paper. What was I supposed to say? My life felt so… normal. Boring, even, compared to whatever he was going through. I felt like I had nothing important enough to write about. I tried to be all fancy with my words, like something out of an old movie. Pretty sure that just sounded ridiculous. I’d write a draft, read it, and just toss it. Felt like I was performing, not communicating.
Figuring It Out, One Letter at a Time
It took a while, a lot of crumpled-up paper, but I started to get the hang of it. My “practice,” I guess you could call it. I really had to work at it, think about what he’d actually want to read. I realized it wasn’t about writing some epic novel or a perfect piece of poetry. It was about connection, plain and simple.
So, I stopped trying to be someone else and just started being me. I’d tell him about my day, the silly stuff, like:
- The weird thing the cat did that morning.
- Something funny I saw on TV, and how I wished he was there to see it with me.
- What I had for dinner, even if it was just cereal because I couldn’t be bothered to cook for one.
- Updates on friends or family, the little dramas and joys.
Sounds dumb, right? But he told me later that stuff made him feel like he was still part of my world, part of home. It was a break from all the… well, military stuff he was dealing with, the seriousness of it all. He said it was like a little slice of normal life delivered to his bunk.
Then I started adding little things. This was a game changer for me. I’d slip in a pressed leaf from our favorite park, something I picked up on a walk. A dumb comic strip I cut out of the paper that I knew would make him laugh. Sometimes a photo, just a regular old snapshot of me, or the dog, or something mundane I’d seen. It wasn’t about grand gestures, but small, consistent things. These little bits and pieces, they were tangible things he could touch and look at.
I also learned a few things along the way, kind of my own rules I developed for these military love letters, through trial and error mostly:
- Be consistent: This was key. Even a short note, sent regularly, meant more than a super long one every blue moon. It showed I was thinking of him often.
- Be honest, but be strong: Yeah, I missed him like crazy, and I told him that. I didn’t hide my feelings. But I also made sure he knew I was okay, holding down the fort, living my life. He had enough to worry about without picturing me moping all day.
- Talk about the future: Simple things we’d do when he got back. Nothing too extravagant, just “when you’re home, let’s go to that pizza place” or “I can’t wait to just watch a movie on the couch with you.” Gave us both something to look forward to.
- Tell him you’re proud: This one’s big. I made sure to say it, and mean it. They need to hear that their sacrifice is noticed and appreciated.
- Keep it positive, mostly: Of course, there were hard days for me, and I’d share some of that, but I tried to make my letters a bright spot for him, not another source of stress. I wanted him to open them and feel good.
I even started keeping a little notebook with me, like a cheap one from the grocery store. If something popped into my head during the day that I thought he’d like to hear, or something I wanted to remember to tell him, I’d jot it down. Just a few words. Then, when it was letter-writing time, usually late at night when the house was quiet, I wasn’t starting from scratch. I had my little list of thoughts and daily happenings.
More Than Just Paper and Ink
And you know what? It worked. It actually did. He’d write back, or tell me on those rare calls, how much those letters meant. How he’d read them over and over, especially when things were tough. Sometimes he’d say the other guys were jealous he got so much mail, which always made me chuckle. He’d share little bits of them, the funny stories, never the mushy stuff, with his buddies.
It wasn’t always easy, finding the words or the time, especially when I was feeling down myself or super busy. But looking back, those letters, that whole process of writing them, it was my way of being there with him, even when we were miles and time zones apart. It was our lifeline, truly. It wasn’t some complicated formula I found in a book, just me, talking to him, on paper, sharing my ordinary life to brighten his extraordinary one. And that, I found, was more than enough. It was what he needed, and honestly, what I needed too.
