the love letter

✨on expressing the thing✨

I’ve written love letters to my three kids that they’re meant to receive when I die. And I want to tell you a bit about the experience of writing those letters.

First though, I recognize that this topic may trigger you, and I apologize for any discomfort I’ve caused. My intention, rather, is to be sincerely direct, about the inevitable destination of this human experience, which is—as we all know—death.

Personally, I’m a healthy 47-year-old who intends to live to be (at least) 96 years old. But, I’m also aware that our mortality’s unpredictability is life’s sobering reality. So, although I prefer not imagining, thinking about or entertaining being gone, I’ve written love letters to my kids so they’ll have some comfort from their mom when I am gone.

The experience of collecting my thoughts and writing to each child individually, was, well, nothing short of profound. I’ve come to call these love letters forever letters, and by writing them, I’ve gained peace of mind, clarity, deeper closeness to my kids, and a full-on cleanse of gratitude.

I’ll elaborate…

Peace of mind.

Initially, if I’m telling the cold truth, my motivation in writing these letters was to check a box. In imagining my kids—at whatever age—dealing with the aftermath of my death, I want the process for them (which can be overwhelmingly administrative) to begin with a personal, emotional connection before it gets legal and logistical. (Learn more about that here.) So, the same planning-gene that ensures that their lunches are packed and their forms are filled out is what motivated me to write the letters. Ducks in rows, I say.

And writing them forever letters achieved that. I have peace of mind that when I die, nothing will be left unsaid; all my sentiments have been recorded precisely as I want them preserved. My kids won’t be relying on their memories, past birthday cards, and albums to access our connection and my love for them—they will have something concrete that was created for this occasion, the occasion of my passing.

Because I can get swallowed by certain unknowns and anxieties about the future, writing the letters has given me an intangible peace of mind.

Clarity.

A freedom of expression comes when you imagine being dead. That sounds awful, I realize, but when I took myself out of the in-person equation of my kids’ lives, I was able to access a newfound level of clarity. Clarity on my belief system when it comes to death; clarity on my emotional legacy as their mom; clarity on my most valuable bits of maternal advice; clarity on who I consider them to be as individuals; clarity on my hopes for their individual becoming; clarity on what our relationship has meant to me; clarity on how I want to continue parenting them.

For instance, before writing the letters, I didn’t know that my greatest hope for my kids is that they nurture their relationships with each other. I found myself writing a sentiment that went like this:

“Your siblings are gold. And your siblings will be a forever connection to your childhood, to me, to Dad, to your personal history and to a feeling of home. My greatest wish is that you three show up for each other when the need is there; that you show up for each other just because; that you can trust each other with your thoughts, feelings and lives; and that you respect each other, even if you disagree with each other’s decisions. I believe that the universe wove your spirits into each other’s lives on purpose. My greatest hope for all three of you is that you choose to be loyal to each other until the end.”

Writing the letters crystalized my realization that one of my core values for my family is strong, positive sibling bonds. Sure, I’ve always cared that they get along, but I hadn’t before realized how very much their bonds mattered to me. And as their mom, I’ve since been more deliberate about facilitating their connections to each other. I’m more focused on planning ahead for pockets of shared sibling experiences where their connection is my goal. Likewise, I’ve chosen to be flexible with the schedule and certain household rules, and even overlook chaos on occasion, when I sense that meaningful sparks of connection have ignited between them.

The clarity I’ve gained has been a gift.

Closeness.

Simply put, I feel closer to my kids after writing them forever letters. At this moment in time, they probably don’t feel any closer to me because of it, but I, for sure, feel closer to them. I feel more connected on a soul level after assigning actual words to my feelings.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s hard to describe deep feelings without leaning on cliché expressions; for me, it required taking the endeavor seriously, making space for the writing of the letters, and thoughtfully reflecting on my words—similar to the kind of care that most put into writing their college essays. I find that when you really go there and imagine the last sentiments you’d ever say to your child, the thoughts and words somehow materialize.

Gratitude.

Naturally, I’m already grateful for the experience of motherhood; I feel utterly thankful for the children I’ve been lucky enough to parent. But while writing these letters, a more intricate kind of gratitude washed over me and cleansed my spirit as I pin-pointed many specific aspects of their beings for which I’m grateful. For instance, I wrote this to my daughter: “I know that your singing voice is a gift that you haven’t wanted to share with the outside world, but I hope you know that you sang a thousand concerts for me, from behind your bedroom door and shower curtain, and I loved every one. Thank you.”

I unearthed so many little spots of gratitude that could easily slip away with my passing, but that I want saved for their continued growth and self-worth. Likewise, the experience, for me, of identifying so much gratitude, strengthened everything about about me. When I revisit the letters’ sentiments, I feel a medicinal impact while remembering all my gratitude—it’s tremendous!

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Ultimately, the emotional process of writing forever letters was overwhelmingly positive. It wasn’t morbid or scary. Like, not at all. I shed tears while composing my letters, but the tears warmed me. The whole experience actually felt important, purposeful, relieving, and, dare I say: fun. The joy I found from identifying my feelings on being Mom to my three was—and continues to be—enormous.

What are your thoughts on writing a forever letter? If you’re considering it, my message to you is: Your love and legacy matter. Go for it!

And, as of next week, I’m officially offering my services to guide and support parents (and grandparents) in Forever Letter Writing. I’ve worked with a handful of clients already, and I’ve learned so much to make the experience natural, enjoyable and smooth for you. (An email with all the details will find your inbox next week.)

In the meantime, if you’d like to get on my VIP list for a jump-start on some one-on-one support in writing your letter, schedule a FREE 15-minute call with me, and I’ll help get you started!

Sending you love and light.

xo Lindsay 

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Other ways I can support your inner self today:

1. Cozy up for fireside stories on Becoming Everwell with Linds.

2. Listen to my podcast interview with Natasha Clawson on The Aspirant Podcast.

3. Enroll in my FREE Masterclass: The 5-Step Framework to Thriving as a Midlife Mom. Or, take my QUIZ.

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