The transformational practice of writing yourself a love letter

Letters From Love/Playing With Fire collab

When the one and only

Elizabeth Gilbert

invited me to participate in her Substack project, Letters From Love, I was gobsmacked. I’ve admired Liz’s writings and teachings for years, and I’d immediately subscribed to “Letters from Love” when she created it on this platform a couple of months ago. Her project encourages people to “come together to discover their inherent value and exquisite preciousness, and to learn how to write and speak to themselves from a place of love and friendliness.” Liz has written love letters to herself for over a quarter of a century and she’s taught the practice to people all over the world, from middle school children to Fortune 500 executives.

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But Liz’s invitation also scared me. When I got it, I took my phone into the closet where my husband was getting dressed and showed him the DM. “Ohhhhh,” he said. “That’s going to be a tricky one.” And he was right. Not because I don’t love myself, but because he knows how difficult it is for me to be vulnerable - or to appear vulnerable. Being overtly and emotionally raw or sentimental is not my sweet spot.

Somewhere along the line, I decided that the way I would show love to others was by doing, fixing and solving. If you’re diagnosed with a rare disease and need access to medical experts, I’m your person. If you’re in jail and need to get out, I’m your person. If someone has fucked you over and you need support, I’m your person. If your flight is cancelled and you’re stuck in a foreign land, I’m your person. But if you want me to play a game or let loose or engage in “joyful movement,” I’m probably not your person. Or at least I wasn’t your person for most of my life.

In the last year, I’ve worked to be more bold in how I show love to myself and others. I went on a psychedelic journey in an attempt to soften my heart. I’m reading books about how to make friends and I’ve gotten out of my comfort zone by hanging out with other women. In April, I even attended a week-long “women’s circle” retreat with total strangers. Just a few hours in, I was hatching an early escape plan, but I stuck with it and on the last night, I found myself dancing (poorly) with a blue paper bird on my head.

That’s what I want for myself — less distance, more dancing. I so admire people who are able to be unabashedly and courageously demonstrative; I envy people for whom it seems to come so naturally. And I desperately want to be one of those people. I hope/believe/know that even at age 52, it’s not too late to become one of those people. I’m committed to evolving, and that evolution now apparently includes writing myself love letters.

This letter was difficult to write — it was uncomfortable and awkward. I wrote it and then recoiled at what I’d written. I knew I finally had my letter right when the words brought tears. I read it aloud several times before taping this video because I didn’t want to get too emotional (another barrier I need to break through!). Despite these struggles, I went through with it. And I’m going to keep writing to myself from a place of love. I really hope you will, too…

I’ll close with a quote about “Letters From Love” from Liz: “I believe there is an ocean of warm, affectionate, and outrageously unconditional love available to us all — and that it is conveniently accessible from within. I don’t believe anyone is excluded from this ocean of love; it is only a question of learning how to hear it, how to feel it, how to trust it. And to walk this path together makes this exercise even sweeter.”

Dear Shannon,

I’ve been here this whole time, patiently waiting for you to be ready to listen. Waiting for you to tire yourself out. Waiting for you to be able to receive. Waiting for you to rest. I knew this time would come and now that it’s finally here I have something very important to tell you: you are loved even when you’re still.

Shannon, you have filled your life with busyness to prove you are worthy of love, but I have always known you are worthy. I love you when you climb mountains and go into battle, but I love you just as much when you take off your armor, when you are vulnerable, and when you are not trying to prove anything to anyone. You are as worthy of love when you’re reading in a hammock as you are when you’re trying to bend the world to your will.

You don’t have to be indomitable or indefatigable anymore, Shannon. You deserve to rest. You deserve to be silly. You deserve to be idle and unproductive. You deserve to be creative. You deserve to play. You deserve to indulge yourself. And I need you to know that when you allow yourself to do these things it does not make me love you less, it makes me love you more.

You are worthy of love — not because of what you can do or what you can offer or how you are helping — but simply because you exist. You can stop fighting and you will still be loved. You can stop fixing and you will still be loved. You can stop doing and you will still be loved.

You can trust me, Shannon. My love for you is unconditional. It is infinite. And it is inexhaustible, so that you don’t have to be.