The 27 Letters

A few months ago, I went quiet. Not just off social media—quiet for real. I cut contact with almost everyone I knew. Not out of anger or drama, but because I needed space. I needed to breathe, to think, to figure things out without anyone else's voice in my head.

Somewhere in that silence, something clicked. An idea popped up: what if I wrote letters? Real ones. No filter, just honest, personal, vulnerable. So I did.

I ended up writing 27.

Some were sent. Some weren’t—because their soul left this world. A few were digital. A few went in the mail. Some were to people I’ll probably never hear from again. Some were to people I hadn’t spoken to in a while. Some were more for me than for them. But every single one came from a raw, real place.

These letters weren’t about fixing things. They weren’t some dramatic attempt to win people back. They were about saying what needed to be said. Lifting the weight. Letting go of things I’d been holding on to for way too long.

Some were apologies. Some were thank-yous. Some were just a way to say goodbye.

I started with the easy ones. The lighter stuff. I saved the hardest letters for last—the ones that felt like they’d wreck me. And yeah, writing those drained me. I almost rushed them out of panic, like I had to get it all done before something changed. But when I reread them, I saw that I’d done them right. Some took a couple hours. One of them took over a week. I sat with every word, every sentence. And even when I could’ve blamed people, gotten angry, I chose not to. I didn’t want the letters to come from a place of blame or bitterness. I was done being stuck in that loop.

And writing them wasn’t easy. It brought up a lot. Old memories. Mixed emotions. Stuff I didn’t even know was there. But somehow, getting it all out gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: peace.

Not everyone got it. Some didn’t answer. Some were confused. Some maybe didn’t care. That’s okay. I didn’t write them to get replies. I wrote them to let go—and to give the recipients a chance to read them. For most of them, I’m glad I did. It revived some friendships. It removed doubt from others.

Because words carry weight. And sometimes, just letting them out—writing them down, sharing them, or even just reading them back to yourself—is enough.

Looking back, those letters were a turning point. I closed chapters I’d left wide open. I realized I didn’t need other people to give me closure. I could give it to myself.

If you're holding something inside—something unsaid—maybe try writing a letter. Even if you never send it. Even if it’s just for you. Getting it out might be the first real step toward healing.

I wrote 27 letters. Each one took something out of me—but gave something back too. A little piece of myself. A little more clarity.

In the end, those letters were a final act. A way to empty my head and heart of all the regret, confusion, blame, and pain I’d been carrying. It was how I broke free from a depression that had kept me stuck for years.

And honestly? I’m proud I did it.