The Triathlon Diaries: Timberman 70.3

Four months ago is when I realized all my triathlon friends were signed up to compete in Gilford, NH at Timberman 70.3. Of course I didn't want to be left out of the New England fun, so I put in a request to take off that weekend from work--I got denied. I got denied not because I don't have the hours, I got denied because another co-worker was going to be on vacation.

One month goes by, we are actively involved in the summer season and my friend reminds me of Timberman. He let me know they were offering a sprint triathlon the day before and for the first time ever, an aquabike. I had to compete. Before, I wanted to cheer, dance and motivate my friends and family, but the aquabike provided an excellent opportunity for injured me to race. So, I put in request #2 at work. Denied.

Two weeks later, request #3, denied.

Three weeks later, request #4. My boss could tell I was disappointed, she apologized before she denied it.

A few weeks go by and I talk to the big boss about it, and she gives me a few tips of what I can say to potentially get the weekend off. I e-mail my boss four paragraphs of pleading and bargaining. A week later when she came back from vacation, I was approved.

I was going to New Hampshire. I told Dan and he told me I had to ask my coach before I signed up. I think he thought it was a bad idea. I e-mailed my coach and received exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me in competing in a half ironman aquabike. I signed up for the race about 12 days out. Last minute planning, eh? That's how I roll in the triathlon world. I spoke with a friend from my past about staying with him on my drive up, I didn't want to drive all 10-15 hours by myself. He was cool with it.

All my friends left for NH on Thursday, while I stayed behind and finished work and coaching. I got a text from my lodging, saying he didn't want me to stay anymore-I went into a panic attack at work because I didn't know how I would survive driving for that long by myself...and in the dark.

Friends are what got me though the drive. I couldn't have survived without them. Thank you to Rachel, Claire, Elizabeth, my mom, Julie, Beth, Aaron and Dan for keeping me company through the east coast traffic, accidents and many many states. I'd never been to Delaware (spent a total of 13 minutes in it), Connecticut or New Hampshire.

Packet Pick Up
I was stoked to be able to get a little Ironman 70.3 black backpack that I saw so many of when helping Dan move (he's a real Ironman). If I'm gonna pay that much money, I better be getting a sweet backpack and t-shirt. So I take my bib number to the backpack station and a volunteer begins filling it with goodies. Until, volunteer #2 looks closer and says, and I quote, "Oh, she's not an athlete, she doesn't get one of those." And hands me a green grocery bag tote bag, with a white DriFit Aquabike t-shirt. Excuse me, what did you just say? I was pissed. Apparently those who swim 1.2 miles and ride 56 miles aren't considered an athlete. Well 17 year old volunteer #2, I'd like to see you beat me, and we could see who isn't the athlete. Just because I can't run, doesn't mean I'm not an athlete. It's not that I don't want to, I do, I just physically can't. Don't ever tell me I'm not an athlete, and give me the damn black backpack. Thanks Dan (or Aaron) for giving me your backpack to make me feel like an athlete.

The Race
Yes, I did skip all of yesterday, but I bet most of you don't care about my day before the race--just getting ready, loving the NormaTec Recovery Boots, salt loading, practicing open water swimming with my wetsuit...for the first time. I'm skipping it.

We got to transition at 5am (so we could get parking) and set up transition area, talked with other athletes, stood in the never ending porta potty lines and took a nap in the car. At 6:40a I said bye and good luck to the boys and went on my way to the beach. It is a battle just getting the wetsuit up, so I needed a good amount of time to put it on and get a warm-up swim in.

Competitors, families and sherpas were flocking the beach--it was a lot of people! Typically that would make me nervous, but I felt good. I felt like I was ready to go out and win this thing. My wave was lining up and I fought my way to the front...being a swimmer, I knew I had to get away from people. Triathletes don't mind (I think) when people touch their feet when swimming. Being a swimmer...I hate it. That just motivates me more to swim faster and get whomever is on my feet, off my feet.

I've never had anyone to draft off of. Does this hurt me in the long run, absolutely, but I'm not going to slow down just so I can grab someone's feet and ride them. I'm going to swim my own race. I'm used to seeing the colors of the rainbow in caps in front of me when swimming, none the same as the one I wear...however there was one person with a bright green cap swimming right next to me. I tried drafting, they weren't having it. They tried drafting, I wasn't having it. So, we swam side by side, swimming over the colors of the rainbow in front of us. I was convinced they were a man. Typical man stroke and usually I'm the first woman by at least 15 seconds out of the water. Imagine my surprise when I got out of the water to see that it was a woman (we talked afterwards and she thought I was a man, too). I got out of the water at 27:40.The swim hurt. I tweaked my shoulder putting my wetsuit on and that pain continued with me for the extent of the swim, but I pushed through and did what I could. I can definitely see room for improvement in that category.

Shout out to the wetsuit strippers...y'all are amazing!

Run to transition was a little slower than I'd like. I was running behind a really slow lady and she wouldn't let me pass, so I slowly ran to Zeke. Clipped on helmet and put on sunglasses and off I went. The first ten miles on the bike went real quick, I was movin', until that mountain we had to climb at mile ten. I felt better seeing everyone else struggling to get up it, but just being in my easiest gear possible was not fun. People were cheering from their house about 3/4 of the way up, screaming "you're almost at the top..." I was not amused. That may be true, but I still have 1/4 of this mountain still to climb. All I was thinking was that there better be an epic downhill at the bottom of this...I was only slightly disappointed. For the next 22 miles or so, I played tag with another Endorphin Athlete. We would chat and cheer every time we passed each other. He took the down hills, I conquered the uphills. Although unsure of who he was, he kept me going and motivated me to dominate those hills.

It was the turn around where I started feeling it. I had nutrition and water with me, but I was in desperate need of salt, so I started licking my lips hoping that the salt in my sweat would provide. Either that did, or God did, but I felt a little better. Because of the nature of the out and back, I began seeing hundreds of racers going the opposite direction from me. I was definitely enjoying the time of not being around people, but that also became very hard mentally. I saw lots of people, but no one was around me. Was I going faster than everyone or was everyone in front of me just killing it? My speed proceeded to go down, but I kept hammering my legs and passed a handful more people. I was hurting a lot around mile 40, so I prayed. When I don't have anyone to talk to, I either talk to myself or I talk to God, and in that situation, He provided. The first time was when I looked up from aero and saw Danny Royce on his hot pink bike. The familiarity of that racer gave me a little kick in the butt and I was able to climb more easily up a hill. A few miles later the hurt set in more and I prayed. I looked up and gave a little smirk and wave to Dan when I saw him pass me going the other direction on GrAce 2.0 and he shouted my name and something else, but I heard my name so it lit a fire under my ass and off I went.

I trained well for this, but I needed to train more in hill work. I was proud of bike but definitely see room for improvement. Working on the hills and being more comfortable in aero going down hills opposed to holding onto my brakes in fear of falling off and dying (legitimate fear). 

I got first overall woman in aquabike and third overall athlete in aquabike...who's not the athlete now?

The Aftermath
When all was said and done and I was back in Richmond, I got sick and my legs hurt...so bad. Even with the pain, my eyes are set on next season when I hope that I am healthy enough to run....It's a great sport.

Defining You

As my blog has eluded, I have made mistakes in my past. I have been challenged, tested and have been treated awfully by people whom I thought cared for me. This is a deep look into how I am challenged with the labels that have been brought up in my life, how people and situations have altered the way I view myself. I'm being honest and truthful with all my readers in hope that someone out there feels the same way, because that's why I write the things I do.

On my way up to New Hampshire, I spoke with one of my best friends, whom I hadn't spoken to in months. She knows me. She knows me well--well enough to see that I am lying to myself about something and that I have built up walls around certain aspects of my life, and that I have chosen to live my life a certain way based on those walls. What a wise woman she is. Not only was I blown away that she was able to grasp that from our two hour long conversation, but being able to grasp that after not speaking to each other in months. A wise, wise woman you are Mrs. Kraft. She told me that I had to be honest with myself, so I am.

She told me I must look at how I define myself because she feels I'm still including my past in my definitions of who I am as a person. I am more of a woman than the shell I used to be. I am more than just a woman who has been used and abused by a man. I learned what a nasty man does to get his way and how he can make even the strongest of women feel degraded and worthless. I learned what fear for your life felt like and the uncertainty of feeling safe even when surrounded by people who genuinely care about you and your well being.

So is this the key element from my past that now shapes who I am as a woman? Unfortunately, yes. It has been almost two years and I still can't move past the label of a victim. It's not even that label--it's the thought that I am no longer good enough for anyone. No longer good enough to love. No longer good enough to be loved. No longer pure enough to be pure. Until I met someone, but like everything else--that didn't last. He gave me hope that I can be enough to someone (even though my heart aches everyday for him).

So I go through stages where I am not enough and my heart yearns for someone amazing. It's a lonely world when you think of yourself that way, however, I'm working hard on not letting it define me. What I've been through in life has taught me very valuable things and I am able to learn and grow because of it. In the meantime, though, I keep myself busy.

I put my stresses and uncertainties into training and I train hard to erase them. I train hard because I am an athlete. I am also a daughter, a sister and a woman in Christ.

How do you then define yourself aside from the things in your past? Let it go (yes, Frozen). But how do you let it go when it's such a big part of what makes you, you? You grow and use those learning experiences to shape you as a better person. You use those experiences to redefine yourself as someone better. Yes, things may have happened to me, but I am becoming a stronger woman with firm beliefs because of it.

Emory Rose

*This is a fiction short story that I wrote a few years ago.

Emory Rose

With a heart of gold and a contagious smile, my childhood best friend continued to be the best and most kind person I knew in my life. Although she had one of the preppiest names around, Emory Rose Collins, she hung with us, the nobodies, but everyone in high school and college loved her--the nerds, the jocks, and the populars. Emory Rose was my best friend, my hero and my savior; she taught me how to live and love to the fullest even when life is filled with tragedy. Emory Rose Collins was a hero and this is her story. 

Emory Rose was born and raised by a loving mother and father, Rachelle and Mitch, and was the oldest of three, two girls and a boy. I met Emory at age three at preschool and I’m told we became best friends, however, we did have many disputes over whose baby doll was whose or who go the pink cup versus the purple cup. By age seven we were in second grade, in different classrooms with different teachers, but we walked to and from school together. Emory’s mom, Rachelle, became very sick and in that year, she had to quit her job and start treatment. The day after Emory’s ninth birthday, Rachelle passed, leaving Mitch alone with a nine, five and two year old. Although my family and the rest of the neighborhood provided meals and child care, it was obvious Mitch struggled a lot. However, by the time Emory turned eleven, she had become the new ‘mom’ figure in the Collins home--she learned how to cook, clean and do dishes, and helped as much as possible. By age fourteen, tragedy found itself back into the Collins home, when Junior died by a car. The one time he didn’t look both ways when crossing the street when riding his bike—he was dead on arrival. 

Although the two deaths in Emory’s life caused heartache and heartbreak, Emory stayed amazingly calm, cool and collected. She never showed anger, sadness, or frustration in public, but she did let it out on the tennis courts. Where was I during all of this, you ask? By her side every step of the way, attending cotillion classes and culinary classes with her. 

I’m sorry if it seems like I’m flying through her life, but this is just the background on her before the real acts of kindness and heroism begin. 

It was senior year of high school, an early spring day when I looked in my mailbox and saw a large envelope from Pensacola University, the only college Emory Rose and I applied to. I ran through the backyards of my neighbors until I got to the Collin’s house. We both opened our large envelopes together, and squealed and jumped for joy when we read that we had both gotten in--myself on an academic scholarship for chemistry and Emory on a tennis scholarship. 

This is where the real story begins--college. We both remained very busy and active in clubs and sports through freshman year--Emory and I being avid participants in the volunteer club--helping, talking and mentoring patients at the nearby hospital. It was after about ten weeks when I realized that Emory was taking notes on all the patients who needed something, whether be for survival or for bettering of their lives. Bethany was a woman we met, a mother of four, but after hitting an IED in Afghanistan, she lost her eye sight, and a year and  a half later, she gave birth to twin girls who she couldn’t see. All Bethany wanted was to see her baby girls grow up. An eleven year old boy, Carson, in liver failure. Carson was on his way to join his family in Heaven due to this genetic disease. Not being high enough on the transplant list, he only had a few months to live. 

Lewis, a sixty-eight year old man with an artificial heart, desperately needing an actual heart. Lewis’s daughter was getting married in sixth months and Lewis wanted to walk her down the aisle without tubes and pumps coming out of his chest. 

Katherine, a twenty-year old student, suffers from dramatic second hand smoke in her lungs. Her family smoked so much around her that her lungs are that of a seventy year old who had smoked two packs a day for fifty years.  Katherine wanted to be able to run, jump and laugh without having to gasp for air. 

There were many others ,but Emory didn’t make it seem as important as the first four. 

The summer going into sophomore year, I knew something wasn’t right with Emory. She was tired all the time and had massive migraines frequently, and on top of that, she had nose bleeds and swollen lymph-nodes. I asked her about it multiple times, figuring she had lymphoma--what he mother died from, but consistently denied me access into that side of her life. It was the first time she had shut me out of her life and I didn’t life it. However, she did tell me that after tennis season ended, she would be un-enrolling from college to go and travel the world and she wanted me to join her. I didn't know what to do; yes, traveling the world had been my dream since I was little, but leaving school behind, I wasn’t sure, so I told her I would think about it.  

One rainy day, she called me up and asked if I could accompany her to her meeting with her tennis coaches--I agreed, but was apprehensive about what may happen. “Coach, this is my best friend, Aria, she came along because there is something I have to tell both of you,” Emory said, and signing to me. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” I spoke while signing. 

“Likewise. What can I do for you, Emory?” Coach Alberston asked. 

“I have received some troubling news in the past month. I have found our that I have lymphoma and a brain tumor. I have cancer,” she confessed. “I don’t need you to feel bad or pity me, but I just wanted to let you know. I will try my hardest at every single practice and match but know I will have to skip a few trainings and practices due to treatment and time to rest. Please don’t dock my talents to a lower ranking because of this, just let me continue to earn my spot on the team. I don’t want to tell anyone, so please keep this between us.” 

“I am very sorry to hear that, but I know that you are a fighter so you will fight this and you will be fine on the team. I wish you the best.” 

From this meeting we headed to the hospital for her first chemo appointment and for the next week, I cleared her drain of hair. She was totally bald, and it just got harder from there. Emory began struggling with tennis and her focus due to her brain tumor. She would stay home from class one day every ten days due to migraines. However, she fought through and never complained about it. 

It was one week before the end of tennis season when I agreed to go travel Europe with her. So we both un-enrolled from school, my parents totally disagreeing with my decision, but I had to, I needed to, I wanted to. So, one week after, we found ourselves in Edinburg, then Dublin, London, Amsterdam, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Frankfurt, Brussels, Parish, Zurich, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, Barcelona and ended in Madrid. After three months, we had seen more of the world than either of us had ever seen. However, without treatment for that span, it was clear that Emory was dying. 

Two weeks after getting back to the States, and being admitted into the hospital, drug and treatment free, my best friend, the world traveler, the bravest person I have ever known, died. I sat by her bed and held her hand as she took her final breath and then shut off her monitor from beeping. The doctors rushed in and took her into surgery to begin their harvest of her organs. 

Thanks to Emory Rose Collins, Bethany was able to see her gorgeous ginger twin girls, Carson was able to go back to school as a happy elementary student, Lewis able to walk down the aisle with his gorgeous daughter, the bride, and Katherine was able to breathe her first full, clean breath of air since very early in her life. A woman named Tiffany received a right hand, a very difficult procedure, and seven others received life saving organs from Emory. 

Not only did Emory Rose save these twelve people’s lives, she gave hope and inspiration to others in her situation. She gave bravery and courage to those struggling with the thought that their life will end soon, she gave a gift of good news and random acts of kindness. Emory was the most humble, genuine and brave person I have ever had the pleasure meeting. Not only did she do all this, she made my life better, everyday by being a part of it. 

At age four, I got meningitis, which caused me to be deaf. I enrolled in signing classes, as did my whole family and at age six, my family, myself and Emory new how to sign. In third grade, Emory led a class to anyone in our school who wanted to learn how to sign. The class continued into middle school, high school and college. By the time we left for Europe, we had guessed that over five hundred people had learned to sign, at least enough to have a small conversation with me. I was the only deaf student at any of my schools, so having a friend take that big of an interest in me and my needs deserves a spot in my life forever. 

Emory Rose Collins changed lives, and to this day, at age thirty-five, a brain surgeon operating on ‘inoperable’ tumors, I still share her story wherever I go. 

Superstitions

I think everyone has a superstition that they either share or refuse to share to others for the fact of being called crazy. I've accepted the label of being crazy, after all, I'm a swimmer, thus I'll tell you about my superstition.

It's not that I think walking under ladders will bring you bad luck (I just avoid them because I'm scared it will come crashing down on me).
It's not that I don't believe in opening up an umbrella indoors (I just don't do it because it doesn't rain indoors).
I don't believe that Friday, the 13th is an unlucky day (I just have lived lucky or very uneventful days on Friday, the 13th).
I don't believe that a rabbit's foot will bring you good luck (I think the concept of them is gross).

So, I've told you what I don't like..so what are my superstitions? Mine, as a lot of peoples are, happen in a sports setting.

Enter the arena of competition swimming. Swimmers are crazy, and I can say that because I am one. We go months on end not shaving our legs, wearing swim suits that are clearly too small for us, we wake up in the darkest and coldest times of the morning to jump into a cold pool and stare at a black line for thousands of yards. The craziness has been built up for many years, which only means that the superstitions associated with the craziness must be pretty good.

Superstition #1: Since I was in 9th grade, I had specific songs for every race. Songs I would listen to before I stepped up on that block. Songs that spoke to me, that motivated me and songs that calmed my greatest fears down. I had to listen to that song associated with that event, or else I wouldn't do well. So the songs, you ask? Of course, anything for my readers:

50 Free: Are You Ready- Three Days Grace

100 Free: Can't Be Touched - Roy Jones

200 Free: Till I Collapse - Eminem

Relays: I'mma Shine - YoungBloodZ

Everything else: Whatever I felt like...but if I didn't listen to one of those songs before my race...I would panic and wouldn't swim as well. Or that's what I believe.

Superstition #2: I believe that I have to say the same prayer before every race. I've been saying this prayer since 9th grade. Nothing about it has changed. I have been superstitious to tell people about my prayer but I'll share it with y'all because I haven't competed in a long time.
Dear Lord,
(Large Inhale) Please be with me as I swim this race. I pray that You give me the courage, bravery and strength to swim this race to the best of my ability, in a way that honors Your name and is the best for my team. Please calm my nerves and allow me to do the best that I can. I pray this in your name. Amen.

Superstition #3: Taper Season. To most swimmers, this is our grace period. After months of training as hard as we can, we finally get a break, finally get a chance to sleep and rest. We finally enter taper. Everyone's taper is different. Some, feel like a million bucks...I am not one of those. If I don't feel  like "poo in the pool" then my taper won't work. Coaches have told me it will regardless of what I feel like. But, being superstitious, I believe that I will not swim well if I don't feel like crap the few weeks before the race.

So, there is an introduction to my superstitions. I think they are all reasonable, after all, I've lived with them for a long time, but my coaches, my teammates and outsiders would probably disagree. But why stop a good thing? Because they're superstitions after all...

Tell Me About Yourself...in 3 Minutes

A few weeks ago I had brunch with a really good, long time friend. He challenged me to tell him about myself in 3 minutes. I began typing this post to do just that, but then a guy I want to know more, suggested that I tell everything about myself in 3 minutes, typing. Well, this is my chance to shine. 3 minutes typing as fast as I can to tell you all about myself.

3, 2, 1....

My name is Margaret, I am turing 24 in three weeks. I am from columbus, Ohio, went to school in Grand Rapids, Michigan and now live in Richmond. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend and most importantly a child of God. I am a swimmer first, triathlete second. I got my degree in social work and work in recreation. I smile always and believe that you can be the happiness in someones day if you smile at them because after all, a smile goes a mile. I think you should live life the way you choose, not how anyone else dictates. You should learn from your mistakes and grow, developing yourself into a better you. I believe everyone should travel and see the world, see the world as God created it. Enjoy cultures and music and experiences because you only live life once. Challenge yourself mentally and physically and grow from all experiences. I believe I would be nothing without my family and friends and most importably my faith. I live a life depicted by my faith, my values, my morals and.....

Times up!

That was pretty good!

Well, thank you for those who prompted this post, as it helped me decompress some things I have been struggling with. If anyone else has an idea, let me know! I'm down for another typing challenge or blogging challenge!

First Kiss & First Love

Love: First Kiss & First Love

When searching blog topics to write about, this popped up. It's a story that not many know about, as I didn't share my first kiss with a lot of people. But I think it's a great story, and my 16-year old self would be proud of this...it could be awkward, though. My first kiss/first love reads my blog. I hope I describe it in a way that is respectful to how you saw it, too.

I was a sophomore in high school when I first heard that accent. I was hooked. It wasn’t until the second or third day on our USVI spring break science trip when I realized my 16-year old self had a HUGE crush on you. I flirted but didn’t expect anything from it, as nothing had ever happened in the past when I flirted with other guys. It was different with you and I know you felt it, too.

It was easy to open up and be 100% me with you. I wasn’t ashamed to cry around you. I wasn’t scared to share my life because I knew you respected me. On the last night of the trip, we were sitting on the beach and you asked me, “When a guy likes a girl, is it appropriate for him to kiss her?”

The only thing that went through my mind was, Oh shit. I’d never been kissed before. I began getting really nervous and felt the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. There was no need to be nervous. You were a gentleman and we enjoyed our time on the beach together…sorry, guys, you’re just going to have to imagine my first kiss(es) with your imagination.

It wasn’t all rainbows and teddy bears after that. Once we got back to the States, you wanted to be friends and my 16 year old self was crushed, but I couldn’t say no to a friendship because of this connection that you and I shared. We’re on the same “wave length” as you call it.

Our friendship continued into my sophomore year of college and it was the best thing I’d ever really had. You were my everything. You knew me better than I knew myself. You knew what bothered me, and how to get me out of a funk, you knew what to say to motivate me in swim meets and how to calm me down from a bad swim, you made me laugh and smile and you made me want to be a better human. For all those reasons and more, I fell in love with you, but you didn’t.

It was at this point in time my life that life got real messy. I cried myself to sleep, I felt rejected and wounded because I wasn’t loved back. I spiraled downhill quickly and found myself in counseling for a multitude of reasons. What I figured out is that the relationship we had was bad for me growing up as a woman of Christ. I had relied so heavily on you, that I stopped going to God when I had problems. I made my first love my rock when Christ is supposed to be my rock.

That summer was the worst and when junior year came around, my friends and counselor agreed it was best for me to disconnect everything from you. I shut you out entirely. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed some more after I had no more tears. My best friend, gone.

Looking back I can say that it was certainly for the best. It taught me that I can’t depend so heavily on a man, that communication is SO important in relationships, that although a man doesn’t love you, doesn’t mean that no one else will. Our friendship and my love for him was spectacular and they helped me grow up to the woman I am now.

I had the pleasure a few weeks ago to go out to lunch with him when I was in Chicago, and although we hadn’t talked or seen each other in nearly three years…that wave length was still there. My love for him is gone, but what remains are the memories and a deep care for this wonderful man. I know that wherever we are in life, we will always have someone who understands each other down to the core…even if we have differing views and values.

Eight years ago we shared a passionate kiss and here we are now, figuring out this friend thing all over again. So thank you, for providing me with amazing memories AND really crappy ones, because without it, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today.

Handwritten Letters

Why Write Handwritten Letters?

I feel that nowadays people rarely pick up a pen and paper to communicated with one another. Our society is so focused on the efficiency, getting something fast and using technology to succeed that. I’m saddened by this because there are so many reasons letters are meaningful than the bing of an e-mail or vibrate of a text.

Writing for me is sort of a therapy, a way, my best way, to express feelings…there is no better feel than a pen and paper and some classical music to purge myself to. Whether be a blog (yes, I write them on paper, first), a poem, short story, novel or letter, writing is an amazing things for me. It’s a way I can show the world or an individual what I’m going through in life.

In college, I was so excited when I looked in my mailbox and saw a handwritten letter…it meant so much more to me than an e-mail. Here are some of the reasons why:

They create lasting memories

The moments you commit to paper are more likely to stay with you than an email or text. Not only stay in your memory -- you will have the physical copy. A box of letters—a box of memories.

They show how much people care

A simple day receiving a smile from a stranger, or a text saying “thinking of you” can change your mood for the day. Imagine the power behind opening a sealed and stamped letter, that has travelled across state lines to someone special. I would imagine a beaming smile at the senders thoughtfulness will say it all.

Letters make you feel good

Just like writing is therapy for me – expressive writing has been linked to reduced stress, a better mood and an overall sense of well-being. I don’t know what else to say to convince you. Sharing your genuine thoughts with another person can  be quite a morale booster; not to mention the butterflies you may feel when the mailman drives away with it.

Letters make every word count

Postcards are short…they pack meaning and really force the reader to ponder the message. Unlike a quick text, handwritten letters pack a personal side of the meaning and you cannot allow that to go to waste.

Letters require your undivided attention

When I write, I zone out everything that happens around me. I shut down except what I want to say and let my hand take over. I purge. To write thoughtfully and honestly, we must focus on the present moment and zone out the craziness of life. It’s quite nice. The same thing goes for reading .When I receive a letter, I escape the craziness, sit down and shut out my surroundings to fully take in the emotion relayed in the letter.

They honor tradition

There is something sacred, even romantic, and old fashioned about communicating in the way generations before us did. Computers and smart phones may prove more efficient, but they can never take the place of sentimental history.

Long after letters are written and sent, letters and postcards remain to be read and appreciated. I kept all my letters from grade school all the way up to sophomore year of college. I read them all, and cried over most of them. All the letters made me remember the details I forgot, or chose to forget, about my life up until that point.

They allowed me to evaluate life and how far my friends and I have come in life. Whether we’re still friends, whether we’re long past love, whether be burnt ourselves out through friendship, my letters taught me a lot.  I threw them all away as I closed that chapter of life and have begun collecting more letters. I hope to inspire more people to write handwritten letters, making themselves vulnerable, taking the time to unplug and let out all your emotions, craziness and life lessons so that someone can enjoy them in a whole new way.

I challenge you to write more letters. I challenge you to take time out of your busy day and just write. Let it out.