Having a pen pal changed quarantine—it was like my door cracked open and new light beamed through.
Feeling Lonely? Write a Letter to a Perfect Stranger
One bright October day I dropped a letter in the mailbox. It was addressed simply to “Mary, volunteer at the Wild Gardens of Acadia.” The letter would travel from the Carolinas, where I live, all the way to Maine in the middle of a pandemic, with little information. I didn’t know Mary’s last name or address, so I had no idea if it would find her.
I’d met Mary once, briefly, when we talked for five minutes while she was on duty at Acadia National Park. My family had driven to Maine for a low-risk, low-budget camping trip, complete with compostable gloves for pumping gas and two negative COVID tests. Like everyone else this year, we needed a change of scenery, and camping felt safe.
Mary works at Acadia’s Wild Gardens, a magical place that highlights the park’s native plants. In 2020 her job was to let people know masks were required, brochures were not available, and the pathway through the gardens was a one-way street. Somehow she managed to be charming about the whole thing. When I walked past her with my dog to explore a nearby trail, she called out with abandon, “You won’t regret it!”
When Mary introduced me to the Wild Gardens, I liked her immediately for showing such care and dedication. I asked if she was a gardener and told her I loved her hat, which was adorably oversized. She said she’s an enthusiast, not a gardener, and that she and her husband, both retired, serve as park volunteers. Then she described how kind visitors had been during the pandemic: They were agreeable about mask wearing and frequently told her husband, who at 68 was the youngest on a team responsible for trail maintenance, how much they appreciated his hard work. Mary’s optimism was enchanting. I kept thinking about her after I left, wondering if she’d been a friend waiting to happen.
What did I have to lose? When I got home, I sent a letter into the void. I used the park’s address and the only information I had about Mary. “I loved meeting you, and if you’d like to write back,” I added, “I’ll be here.”
I went on with life hopeful but not holding my breath—I wasn’t sure my letter would make it. Imagine my surprise, then, when Mary wrote back.
Now, armed with paper, ink, and stamps, supported by an army of postal workers whose jobs are at risk, Mary and I are getting acquainted the old-fashioned way. She’s telling me, slowly and in many installments, how she ended up in Maine. I’m asking questions about her life and sharing hopes for my own, complete with poems, cartoon clippings, and snapshots of my dog. I’d often wondered how to foster intergenerational friendships, which were hard to find even before the pandemic, but I’d never considered using my mailbox.
Having a pen pal changed quarantine—it was like my door cracked open and new light beamed through. Visiting the mailbox became a source of joy, and I was reminded that a little connection can go a long way.
I am not the only person, it turns out, exploring letter writing during this pandemic. Last spring amid new lockdown measures, journalist Rachel Syme bought an old typewriter that “looks like a spaceship,” as she puts it, and started sending letters to friends. She was transported back to middle school, when she spent entire school years writing everyone from summer camp. Caught in a wave of crafting and nostalgia, she requested pen pals on Instagram but, to her surprise, ended up with more than she could handle. On Twitter she asked if anyone wanted one of her pen pals.
AdvertisementThe response was overwhelming, and Penpalooza was born. In the first week 1,000 people signed up, and now the service hosts over 8,000 letter writers in 50 countries. For Syme, letter writing reignited an old creative spark, and she thinks it’s done the same for others. Penpalooza tapped into a need for intimacy and connection that existed before this year but was magnified by the pandemic. She still receives letters every day, but the experience never gets old. “Every letter that arrives feels like a little miracle,” Syme says.
That has certainly been the case for me, and the pleasure of exchanging letters with Mary only led me to send more. First I wrote to Chad, a perky shopkeeper I met in New Preston, Connecticut, on the drive home from Maine. He told me that my vision of opening a bookshop in the woods sounded like a Hallmark movie. Next I sent cards to friends scattered around the country. “Why didn’t we get together before lockdown?” I asked, often closing with “I miss you. Here’s to more hugging in 2021.”
I soon acquired a digital pen pal too. Writer Kirthana Ramisetti and I met in a writing group launched to raise money for voting rights in October, and we’ve been emailing ever since. Unlike most emails, our notes don’t come with to-do lists or deadlines. They are long, winding conversations that remind me of the early days of the internet, when email was fun.
I soon received more cards from strangers, but this time they came with a purpose. “Please vote for Jaime Harrison! He cares about people,” I read in large, sprawling script that was completely unfamiliar yet undeniably intimate. Since knocking on doors was no longer safe, political campaigns had picked up letter writing too.
We know humans need connection, but in 2020 that very connection became a threat. Our culture, which was pushing us toward isolation even before the pandemic, did not prepare us to prioritize the mutual care and interdependence that could have carried us through this kind of devastation. It’s a testament to human resilience and ingenuity that, despite those failures, we’ve found safe ways to connect.
Marisa Franco, Ph.D., a psychologist specializing in friendship and connection, tells me that “writing letters is an excellent way to generate feelings of connection.” Her work demonstrates that connection “isn’t just derived from being around people—it's also based on internal feelings of connection that we carry when we’re alone.”
When I sit down to write Mary, I do feel connected, even though we hardly know each other by the standards of the digital age. Every tiny thing revealed in her letters feels like a gift, and it’s nice to know a set of caring eyes is on the other side of my mailbox. Maine seems a world away, especially now, but it doesn’t matter. Mary and I are listening closely from far apart.
Franco suspects more of us are writing letters this year because it provides a channel for experiencing “gratitude and empathy for others, which research has linked to less loneliness.” Even the simple act of thinking positively about people to whom we’re connected, whether casually or in a formal practice like loving-kindness meditation, helps us feel less alone. Writing letters, Franco points out, is “a way to embody those feelings of connection, even in times of solitude.”
Before the pandemic I wouldn’t have considered sending a letter to someone I met on the road. But this year changed everything. Opportunities to share conversations became rare, so I learned to value even five minutes spent with a stranger.
Becoming pen pals with Mary showed me that meaningful connection is still available this year if I’m willing to look for it. Letters can’t replace hugs, but in my experience they come close.
Lauren Maxwell is a writer living at the southern tip of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Subscribe to her newsletter, We’re All Friends Here.
This story originally appeared on: Glamour - Author:Lauren Maxwell
