I save everything handwritten.
Birthday cards, letters, notes, anything. If someone has taken the time to write something for me, chances are it’s in my little Paris tote in my childhood bedroom.
I’ve always been like this. I don’t necessarily care what the note says, or how long the message is. I care about the person who wrote it.
I think there’s something really interesting about handwriting. We all grow up learning the same 26 letters. We’re taught how to write them, how to connect them, and how to make them legible. But somewhere along the way, everyone develops their own way of writing.
I think it’s poetic how everyone dots their i’s and crosses their t’s differently.
Some people write in cursive, some write in print, and some have handwriting that’s almost impossible to read. Even though we’re all writing the same letters, no two people’s handwriting looks exactly alike.
It’s such a small thing, but I think it’s one of the things that makes us unique.
I’ve always associated handwriting with care.
My Mimi has sent handwritten cards to every one of her grandchildren for as long as I can remember. Christmas, Easter, Halloween, birthdays. If there’s a holiday, there’s probably a card from Mimi.
I’ve come to expect them at this point, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate them any less.
The messages are always short and sweet, usually pretty similar between all of us, and she always signs them the same way: “Love you bunches.”
I don’t think she realizes how much those little cards mean to me.
It’s not that she’s writing some long, elaborate letter to each of us. It’s that she takes the time to sit down and write something to every single one of her grandchildren.
Even if the messages are almost identical, each card is still personal because she wrote it herself.
And I think that’s what I appreciate most about handwriting.
We’re so used to sending a quick “ily” over text, wishing someone happy birthday on Snapchat, or sending a message that takes less than ten seconds to type.
I’m guilty of it, too.
And I’m not saying those messages don’t mean anything. Of course they do. But I think there’s something different about receiving something handwritten.
Someone had to take the time to physically write something for you. It doesn’t have to be anything extraordinary, but it’s something they put a little extra effort into.
I’ve always preferred making my own cards instead of buying them. I’ll sit down, write out a message, and color in the card myself.
I know I could just go to the store and buy something that looks nicer, but that’s never really been the point for me. I like knowing that whoever receives the card has something personal from me. Something I made specifically for them.
And I think that’s why I appreciate receiving handwritten things so much, too.
I have my grandpa’s handwriting tattooed on me.
It’s my last name, written in his handwriting, and I got it as a memorial tattoo after he passed away.
When I think about it, I could have gotten my last name tattooed in any font. But I didn’t want just any version of my last name. I wanted his. It’s something he physically wrote, in a way that only he could have written it.
And now I get to carry that with me.
I think my tattoo is one of the best examples of why handwriting means so much to me. It’s not necessarily about the words themselves. It’s about the person behind them.
My last name would mean the same thing regardless of how it was written, but having it in my grandpa’s handwriting makes it that much more personal.
I think that’s something we overlook about handwriting.
We spend so much time taking pictures and videos to remember people and moments, but sometimes something as simple as a handwritten note can mean just as much.
I have cards that say nothing more than “Happy Birthday” and a signature, but I still keep them.
Not because I need to remember what someone wrote in a birthday card five years ago, but because I like having something that came from them.
I think there’s something comforting about being able to recognize someone’s handwriting. You don’t need to see their name or even read what they’ve written to know who it belongs to. And I think it’s interesting how something that starts out belonging to one person can become meaningful to someone else.
My Mimi’s handwriting is hers, but the cards she’s sent me have become part of my own memories. My grandpa’s handwriting was his, but now it’s something I carry with me every day.
Maybe that’s why I save everything.
I don’t think it’s really about collecting cards or pieces of paper. It’s about having little reminders of the people who care about me.
I know handwritten cards and letters aren’t going to replace texting, and I don’t expect them to. But I hope we don’t completely lose the habit of writing things by hand. I hope people keep writing birthday cards, leaving little notes, and making things for the people they love.
And I hope people keep them.
Because I think there’s something special about knowing that someone took the time to write something just for you.
Even if it’s only three words.
“Love you bunches.”