Why I Always Send Postcards (Even Now)

In a world of instant everything—instant messages, instant likes, instant updates—postcards feel like a relic. Glossy rectangles with carefully printed edges, bought from a rack near the register, scribbled on in quiet corners of cafés or hotel lobbies. They arrive late, often after I’m already home, bearing stories that have already been told another way.

And still, I send them. Every trip. Every time. Not because it’s efficient, but because some things are worth the wait.

The Pause Between Places

There’s something grounding about writing a postcard in the middle of movement. You pause. You take inventory. What do I want to share? What moment deserves to be captured in ink, not pixels?

You think differently when there’s a limit—space for only a few sentences. It forces intention. You can’t ramble. You can’t revise a dozen times. You write simply, truthfully:

“Saw the most beautiful light this morning over the hills. Thinking of you.”

It’s enough. It’s everything.

A Tangible Proof of Presence

Unlike a photo on a feed, a postcard exists in the hand. Someone holds it, reads your words in your handwriting, sees your smudge of ink or awkward spacing. It’s physical proof: I was here, and I thought of you.

There’s something achingly human about that. It’s not curated. It’s not reactive. It’s not a performance. It’s just a moment made real through pen, stamp, and paper.

Who I Write To—and Why

I send postcards to friends I speak to weekly and relatives I haven’t seen in years. I send them to people who still keep a fridge door covered in magnets and paper clips. Sometimes I send them to myself, to arrive in a week or two as a gentle nudge: Remember this. You were here. It mattered.

It’s not about novelty—it’s about intimacy. A postcard is a small act of care, mailed across time zones. It says: I stopped what I was doing to think of you, in a place you’ve never been, on a day you didn’t know I was thinking of you.

When the Post Is the Story

Some of my favorite travel stories begin with postcards—getting lost trying to find a post office in a mountain town, miming “stamp” in five languages, decorating a card with borrowed markers from a child at the next table.

Sometimes the card gets home before I do. Sometimes it arrives bent or faded. But when it does, it carries with it not just a story, but the journey itself. It traveled too.

The Takeaway: Some Traditions Deserve to Stay

I don’t send postcards because I reject technology. I love sharing photos and texting updates. But postcards feel different. They exist outside the algorithm, outside the noise. They’re deliberate. Physical. Slow.

And in that slowness, there’s connection. A quiet kind. The kind that lingers. The kind that sticks to refrigerators and bookshelves long after the trip is over.

So I keep sending them. Even now. Especially now. Because in a world moving so fast, a little pause—sealed, stamped, and sent—feels like a small act of rebellion. And a big act of love.