For those who are isolated and alone, or who have experienced trauma—especially true for many in the last several weeks of pandemic and protests—connecting with others is vital. Perhaps as important as breathing.
Sharing even the most mundane details of our daily lives can provide a lifeline to another.
In 1992, a few months after graduating from college, I moved to Paris for a year, to work as a nanny and take classes to improve my French. These were the days before smart phones, email, and social media.
Cut off from regular communication with my family and alone in a new city, I struggled with loneliness and isolation.
Brief conversations over the phone once every week or two never got beyond the basics, such as “How are you?” and “What’s the weather like there?” In the first few weeks, I held back the tears and responded, “I’m fine,” determined not to worry my parents.
I’ll adjust, I thought. It’s just going to take some time.
Instead of regular calls, we relied on letters to share the details of our lives.
I wrote pages and pages of detailed descriptions of my life in Paris, using whatever paper I could find—a few pieces of stationery I’d packed; notebook paper from my classes; the backs of flyers, concert programs, or church bulletins; or paper from small notepads. I filled every inch with text, mindful of the cost of postage.
My mom, back home in Iowa, wrote to me every day.
Every.
Single.
Day.
She sat at the kitchen table every night and squeezed all the day’s news on the blue, one-page sheet of air mail stationery that folded up to create its own envelope. When a line of text curved down the page and her writing became indecipherable, I imagined her laying her head on the table and falling asleep in the midst of composing a sentence.
Mom reported the weather, and how it affected her hour-long drive to work. She shared that my youngest sister was finishing up finals at community college, or that my brother was looking for an apartment. She wrote about feeling obligated to go visit her mother, who lived four hours away, but being too tired to make the drive. She described my younger sister’s boyfriend—who would become her fiancé by the time I returned home.
When my dad was looking for a new position and waiting to hear back after an interview, she wrote, “I guess no job word for Dad—who knows—just seems to drag on.” Reading between the lines, I could hear her concern and frustration.
There was nothing particularly profound in her letters. Just the routine and unremarkable details of the day. No deep expressions of love. That was never how my family communicated.
On many days in those first weeks, I returned to the apartment for an afternoon of work after spending my day sightseeing, alone. Yes, I had embarked on an exciting adventure, and I loved exploring Paris. It felt like a dream, experiencing in person all the places I’d only seen in movies. And at the same time, my heart ached for home.
Sometimes several days passed without a letter—the postal service was not as consistent with its delivery as Mom was with her writing—but then a bundle of three, or maybe even five, would arrive. When I walked through the apartment door and saw the light blue envelopes stacked on the table inside the front door, my heart leapt. The minutes with the six-year-old girl I nannied ticked by as I anticipated retreating to my room and opening each letter. I read and re-read them, hearing Mom’s voice as she described the day-to-day happenings at home.
Mom’s letters became a lifeline after a stranger sexually assaulted me a few weeks after arriving in Paris. At a time when I was alone and frightened, the mundane, daily life contained in the letters became a still point in the midst of the swirling chaos.
After telling my parents a watered-down version of what happened, Mom wrote, “Just hope that you are able to go on with confidence. We hope your injuries are healing.” She ended the letter with a weather report. Her words—even the most ordinary—tethered me to home. In the darkness of the aftermath of rape, her letters provided me with the light I needed to go on.
Now, forced into physical isolation for weeks due to coronavirus, I’m reminded how important it is to connect with others. I’ve been more intentional about reaching out—calling my parents, facetiming with nieces and nephews, sending emails or handwritten cards and letters to friends.
As the days of isolation meld into one another, leaving me with nothing remarkable or interesting to share, Mom’s letters remind me that what may seem like unremarkable details of life can be a lifeline for another. Simply reaching out to connect is enough. My words may bring light to someone else’s darkness.
How are you connecting these days? Comment below or connect with me on social media.
