All in Open Letters

An Open Letter to Social Media

Dear Social Media,

I have a love/hate relationship with you. Let me explain. 

You’ve given me a lot of good things. One of your earliest spawn taught me how to code before I even knew what coding was, because a Myspace profile that didn’t automatically blast a Nelly chart-topper through my visitors’ speakers wasn’t a Myspace profile worth having. 

An Open Letter to Doubt

Dear Doubt: 
I can’t pinpoint exactly when you first showed up in my life, but I do remember when we first came face to face. Now that I think about it, it was inevitable that we’d eventually meet; you’d been skulking around the edges of my life for a while.
 

An Open Letter to 5 AM

Dear 5 AM,

Long before words like “productivity” and “achievement” meant anything to me, I woke up before the school bus came to sneak in a few extra chapters of the latest Dear America book.  I remember sitting with you at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning, imagining the magical possibilities awaiting me under the tree once my parents finally climbed out of bed and set me loose.

An Open Letter to My Body

Dear Body, Do you remember that panic attack I had last year in an airplane factory? (Fight or flight--that’s a good one. Leave it to a poet’s anxiety to be both elegant and ironic.) I sweat thinking about it still. Present were the usual suspects, all the warning signs: enclosed spaces, far-too-open spaces, heights, a large, hurried crowd, foreboding, half-crafted 787s, an old freight elevator.

An Open Letter to Minimalism

Dear Minimalism,

I see your likeness in square frames on Instagram. White walls glowing with sunlight. Carefully selected, solid wood furnishings. Warm candles on marble tabletops. Beautifully displayed capsule wardrobes in spacious closets. I long for this kind of order. The home that quietly invites, “Have a seat, there is no need to clean any longer.”

An Open Letter to Sleep

Dear Sleep,

Why have you forsaken me? I promise, we can work this out. I know what I said before, in my utmost ignorance. I know what I said while I was pulling all-nighters in the name of finishing assignments in college:  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” I didn’t mean it. I swear.
 

An Open Letter to (and From) the First Trimester

The way I see it, I'm a reasonable person. And being that I'd met you before in the crevices of Autumn 2013, I had what I believed was a reasonable understanding of how you would work with me the second time around. No working relationship is perfect, of course, but with my previous experience, I was optimistic. First Trimester? Why not!