Missing the magic of real mail

I’ve been thinking a lot about letters lately. Growing up, I wrote to my grandparents since none of them lived nearby, and I was always thrilled when they wrote back. During my gap year in England, my friends and I sent letters to each other, often including photos or little things that reminded us of one another. I also wrote to my parents and grandparents during that time—2004 might have been the year I sent the most mail in my life.

The excitement of finding a letter in the mailbox never faded. It felt like a little piece of home, a warm hug. I saved every one, and now, years later, they’re more than just words—they’re snapshots of time. It’s funny looking back at how often we mentioned emailing each other, yet still sent letters anyway. There’s just something special about receiving one.

These days, my mailbox is mostly bills and junk. My grandparents are gone, and with them, their letters. Messages from friends have been replaced by apps and instant replies. But mail—real, tangible mail—feels different. A handwritten letter carries more than just words; it holds time, thought, and care. It’s a gift, one that lingers in a way a quick message never could.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been craving something slower. It’s so easy to get swept up in the constant stream of emails, ads, and notifications, but I miss the small, intentional moments—like taking the time to write a letter or simply pausing to appreciate something beautiful. Our grandparents lived at a different pace, and I find myself longing for that too.

When I send my artwork out, I’m reminded of this sentiment. Seeing my paintings in their new homes feels like they’re writing back to me. “Dear Mum, it’s lovely here! The lighting’s perfect, and the walls are great. Please send more snacks! Love, the Painting.” It’s one of the most special parts of what I do—knowing my work has found its place in someone’s world.

And if you ever feel like sending a little postcard my way, I’d love to see where my art has landed in your home.