Dear Reader,
Happy New Year!
On December 31st, I wrote my 365th letter, one for every day of the year. The resolution was complete.
And then January arrived. The month known for self-love and performing habits meant to support emotional, mental, and physical health. Drink more water. Set better boundaries. Become a better version of yourself.
Instead, I reached for my pen.
I didn’t have to anymore. The resolution was accomplished. The streak had ended. There was no promise left to keep. And yet my hand moved toward the stationery without debate, as if the decision had already been made.
What I finished last year, I realized, wasn’t a practice. It was a gift.
When I began this project, I framed it as a challenge. It felt slightly unhinged and very specific, which is usually how I know something might matter. I assumed it would be about discipline, output, maybe nostalgia.
What I didn’t expect was how quickly it stopped feeling like a task and started feeling like something I was doing for myself.
Handwriting slows you down. The pace of the pen keeps you honest. Some days the letters were long and reflective; other days they were brief, even awkward. But every day, they required presence, and disconnection.
To write a letter, I had to step away from screens, notifications, and the low-level hum of the internet. In that forced quiet, something unexpected happened: real connection took root. Not just to the people I was writing to, but to myself.
I began to see the letter writing for what it truly was: an act of self-love. Not the performative kind January so often sells us, but the quieter kind—choosing slowness, choosing attention, choosing to be fully where I was. Sitting at a table. Holding paper. Letting my thoughts arrive without interruption.
That time away from my phone began to ripple outward. I reached for paperback novels again instead of ebooks. I started drawing, just to see what would appear on the page. I noticed how much calmer my mind felt when it wasn’t constantly being pulled elsewhere.
The mailbox became a measure of time. Replies arrived weeks or months later, or not at all. I learned that silence is also a form of correspondence. That was part of the lesson.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking Did I write today? and started asking Who am I connecting with right now? When the year ended, I expected closure. What I felt instead was a brief pang of fear and sadness, that I might lose something that made my heart sing.
And then I realized: who says I have to stop?
I can see now what I couldn’t name then. This practice was never really about letters. It was always about self-love, disguised as correspondence.
As this new year begins, I’m thinking about how to protect that feeling, how to build on what the letters gave me. I don’t have a new daily quota, but I do have an intention: to spend less time on my phone, to treat my time with more care, and to let writing letters, reading real books, and making things with my hands continue to guide me.
I’m still writing letters because they remind me that connection doesn’t have to be immediate to be real. That some of the most meaningful conversations happen off-screen, in ink, over time.
With love (and 51 Substack posts still waiting to be written this year),
Felice
P.S. What self-love habits do you practice or hope to begin this year?
Editor’s note:
If you’re new here, welcome. I began this space as a way to document a yearlong letter-writing ritual, but it has become something slower and more intimate: reflections on connection, presence, and the small practices that shape our days. I’m glad you found your way here.
SONG OF THE WEEK
Letters on the Kitchen Table (song is at the top of this post) by, well, me! Kind of. I created it on AI. Does that count? A little? Hope you like it. Next stop: The Grammys! Look out Lionel Richie.
ATTENTION BOOK LOVERS: Your Dream Cruise Is Here!
Felice Cohen is an award-winning author, best known for squeezing big ideas into small spaces—like her 90-square-foot NYC apartment (yes, really). Her books include Half In: A Coming-of-Age Memoir of Forbidden Love, 90 Lessons for Living Large in 90 Square Feet, and What Papa Told Me, with praise from legends like Elie Wiesel and Rita Mae Brown. Her viral YouTube tour has racked up over 25 million views—mostly from people wondering where she kept her shoes. More at felicecohen.com.
