Sending You a Bit of Light
Recently, I’ve wondered if it was time to stop. Every Sunday morning for five years, I’ve sent you personal essays—stories from dozens of different writers, sometimes my own. This is the 249th time I’ve pressed send, and I wasn’t sure there should be another.
Then yesterday, I was heading to look at the avocados when my grocery cart bumped into a stranger’s. By the time we parted a minute or two later, I knew about her divorce, her daughter’s wedding, and why she’ll never trust a GPS again—she once wanted to go to Coaticook and ended up in Connecticut.
This is how it goes with me—I collect stories the way my father collected stamps. Every person is carrying something they’re waiting to share, and I can’t help but listen to it or want to read about it.
Which is why I keep sending you personal essays—that particular form of creative nonfiction in which a writer explores a specific experience or moment and finds meaning in it that they hope will resonate. They're intimate without being diaries, reflective without being academic, true stories that illuminate larger truths.
Sometimes people ask me, “Is this serious writing?” When I hear that, I just want to sit them down at my kitchen table and make them a coffee. I want to tell them about the African proverb: “When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground.” Every person walking around is a library, and personal essays are how we check out the books.
Here’s what I know: We all want to be understood. We carry stories we want to share, hoping they might resonate with someone else or teach them something from our experience. Maybe a reader will think, “yes, that’s exactly how it felt for me,” or maybe they’ll simply see their own life differently. Maybe they will have a good laugh or a cry.
I read collections of them compulsively, one after another. I love when the first sentence hooks me in. I love when the story leaves me with a reflection that lingers. Give me the messy, the vulnerable, the unguarded moments.
The magic happens in the space between telling and hearing. A writer shares their story, and suddenly a reader halfway across the planet feels less alone. This is not small. This is how we know we’re part of something larger than ourselves.
Every Sunday morning, I share your personal essays or mine with strangers on the internet, which still surprises me since I’ve always thought of myself as private. But privacy and stories are different creatures. Privacy is about boundaries. Stories are about bridges. I’ve learned you can build bridges while keeping your gate locked.
The exchanges that follow—the comments from readers—this is what I love. The stories connect us, and the comments that follow prove it. Everyone at the bus stop has a story, every shared meal is a chance to borrow someone else's book, and every comment is proof someone heard. I don’t for a moment think these Sunday stories will solve climate change or fix trade issues, but they do something just as important: they remind us we are not alone.
So when people ask: 'is this serious writing?'—when they dismiss the genre as lightweight—I don't argue. I just think about all the stories they’re missing—all those libraries, walking around, waiting to be read.
As we start the new year, while the world feels like it’s on fire, I’m still here, and my hope remains simple: when you open your inbox on Sunday mornings, you’ll find a friend telling you a story. That’s all. Just one more library, waiting to be read. I wish you health, meaningful connections, joy, and a bit of light from our shared stories.
Before I go, I want to thank you. Thank you for opening these Sunday morning emails for five years. Thank you to those of you who’ve shared your own stories in the comments or sent me notes about essays that resonated. Those exchanges mean more to me than you know—they’re proof that these bridges we’re building actually reach somewhere. And to those of you who support this newsletter with a paid subscription, thank you especially. You make it possible for me to keep these stories open to everyone and to work with the talented Stella Kalaw, an artist based in San Francisco who illustrates every story, every Sunday.
I never take for granted that you choose to spend part of your weekend with these essays. Your inbox is probably as overflowing as mine, and yet here you are. Whether you read every word or just skim the ones that call to you, whether you’ve been here since the beginning or joined last month—I’m grateful you’re here. This strange, beautiful experiment of sharing stories with strangers on the internet only works because you’re on the other end, reading.
Lord NO. Please don't stop! (I know you said you weren't planning to, and still I want to underline loudly, my encouragement for you to continue!)
You said you love the comments, and so do I. I have often used the word community in my posts, because I believe that some of what this fractured world needs most, is a community of people who care.
You have provided the space for this disparate community to meet. And every person I have "met" in our community cares.
BLESS YOUR HEART, Alice!
Thank you, Alice, for your service! And it truly is service for the good of humanity. The connections are real, and the personal life stories are touching and inspire reflection. We, I, look forward to the Sunday morning mini-read. You have affected the lives of a large number of people who seek to understand others. As we would say in Quebec, with typical understatement, ce n’est pas rien! If it is not too taxing for you, please keep it up. We need these moments to navigate difficult and strange times.