It started with a book.
I was reading a novel—one of those stories that pulls you in and doesn't let go. In it, a character wrote a letter to their future self. Something about that moment stuck with me long after I finished the last page.
I thought, how cool would that be? To write a letter today and open it a year from now. To see who I was, what I hoped for, whether I became the person I wanted to be.
Not a note in my phone that I'd forget about. Not a document buried in some folder. A real letter, in my own handwriting, waiting for me.
That idea sat with me. And then it grew into something bigger.
The Letter I Wish Existed
My mom had pancreatic cancer. It happened fast—the kind of fast that doesn't give you time to prepare, to say everything, to capture what matters.
After she passed, I found myself looking for her everywhere. In photos, yes. In memories, of course. But what I craved most was her voice. Her words. Something she had written, something I could hold in my hands and know that she had touched.
I found her handwriting on random things—a grocery list, her name scribbled on a piece of paper. And I held those scraps like they were priceless. Because they were.
I kept thinking: What if?
What if this service had existed when she was sick? What if someone had told her, “Write letters to everyone who matters. We'll deliver them when the time is right.”
She could have written to me, for the moments when I'd desperately need my mother's words.
She could have written to her grandchildren—some not yet born—so they'd have something of her to hold.
How cool would it have been to receive a letter from her after she passed? To see her handwriting, feel her presence, hear her voice one more time?
While I was devastated at the time, this would have meant everything. To have something I could pull out from time to time and remember her would have been priceless.
I still have amazing memories. But nothing beats looking at her handwriting. Even just her name that she wrote on a piece of paper brings back so many emotions.
A Confession: I'm Obsessed with Writing
Here's something you should know about me: I have a problem. A wonderful, expensive, completely justified problem.
I love writing.
Not typing—writing. With fountain pens that cost more than they should. On paper that feels like possibility. In notebooks I buy because they're beautiful, even though I have a stack of empty ones waiting.
I collect pens the way some people collect shoes. I have favorites for different moods. I notice paper quality the way wine people notice tannins.
And the act of writing by hand? It's therapy. It's meditation. It's the closest thing I have to magic.
The Best Times of My Life
Some of my happiest memories are tied to writing.
Years ago, I created a blog and wrote my heart out. Everything and anything. The big stuff and the mundane. The hard days and the beautiful ones.
That writing helped me through challenging times I didn't think I'd survive. It was my processing, my release, my way of making sense of a world that didn't always make sense.
And now? I go back and read what I wrote, and it brings a smile to my face to see where I was and where I am now. To meet the younger version of myself on those pages. To see how much has changed and how much hasn't.
That's what writing does. It creates a bridge between who you were and who you're becoming.
Why Hold My Letter Exists
So here I am, combining all of it:
The goal-setting letter I wanted to write to myself.
The letters I wish my mom had been able to write to us.
The love of handwriting, of pen on paper, of words that last.
The belief that what we write matters—not just in the moment, but across time.
Hold My Letter exists because I believe your words deserve to be preserved. Your handwriting is your fingerprint. Your letters are your legacy.
And in a world that moves too fast, that forgets too easily, that stores everything in clouds that could disappear—a letter in an envelope, waiting to be delivered, is something real.
My Hope for You
I hope you write more letters.
To yourself. To the people you love. To the future.
I hope you write cards and keep them. I hope you find your grandmother's handwriting someday and feel what I felt holding my mom's.
I hope your words bring warm memories to someone, someday—maybe someone who isn't born yet.
And I hope, when you're gone, you leave behind more than photos. I hope you leave behind your voice, in your handwriting, saying the things that mattered.
That's why I built this.
That's why I'm here.
Write the letters. I promise they'll matter.
💜
— Courtney, Founder of Hold My Letter