The Habit That Saved Me

Let me set the stage for you: It’s late 2018. I’m sitting in my tiny Houston apartment, staring at three—yes, three—half-eaten cartons of takeout on my coffee table. Luther Vandross is crooning his heart out from a dusty Bluetooth speaker, and I’m deep in my feelings after another failed situationship. You know the kind: all text messages, no actual connection. I’d been doing this rinse-and-repeat routine for months—convincing myself I was building something real, only to realize I was just the Wednesday night entertainment. Frustration had become my love language.

The truth was, I wasn’t just recycling lukewarm relationships—I was recycling myself in them. Same overcompensation, same frayed edges, same self-destructive cycle. Then, one gloomy Tuesday, after an ill-advised scroll through my ex’s Instagram (don’t judge me, we’ve all been there), I decided something had to change.

No, not my taste in men—that’s still a work in progress. But something deeper. A small, simple shift that saved me: I started writing love letters—to myself.

How It Started: A Spiral, a Pep Talk, and a Pen

If someone had told me that cracking open a notebook and pouring out my messy thoughts could rewrite the way I approached love, I likely would’ve rolled my eyes harder than a teenager grounded on Homecoming weekend. I used to think "self-love" was one of those fluffy Pinterest concepts, like drinking green smoothies or manifesting. Who had the time?

But that bleak morning after my Insta-stalking binge, a small, resilient part of me knew that something had to break—not me, but the cycle. I grabbed a journal from my nightstand and started writing a letter to myself like I was a long-lost friend.

Instead of listing my flaws or focusing on where I’d gone wrong like I usually did, I wrote what I would’ve said to someone I truly loved.

“Dear Marc,” it began. “I know you’re tired. And I know, right now, it feels like you’ll never be enough for the love you want. But you are. You’re more than enough.”

Let me tell you, writing that first letter was like walking into a Beyoncé concert late and trying to find your seat while dodging judgmental side-eyes. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. But I kept writing until it started to flow. And when I finished, I felt...lighter. Not cured, not fixed, but clearer.

The Habit: Writing Letters, Building a Legacy

Here’s why it stuck: Writing to myself became a weekly ritual. Every Sunday night, I’d light a candle (because Luther taught me the importance of setting a mood) and sit down to scribble out my thoughts. Sometimes, they were affirming. Other times, they were brutally honest. But they were always kind.

This wasn’t about delusion or pretending everything was fine; it was about showing up for myself in ways I’d never demanded anyone else to.

When my inner critic piped up with doubts—“Maybe you’re too much, Marc” or “He didn’t text back because you’re too demanding”—my letters became my clapback.

  • “Too much for who? Somebody who doesn’t appreciate all this sparkle? Girl, bye.”
  • “Demanding? Love doesn’t come with fine print. Someone who wants you will gladly read the terms and conditions.”

Writing those letters taught me to flip the script in my head and grease the wheels of self-acceptance.

How It Changed Me

This simple habit of writing brought a few major changes to the table—ones I didn’t even realize I needed until they smacked me across the face (lovingly, of course).

1. I Stopped Performing in Relationships.

Before this habit, I was doing emotional gymnastics that would’ve impressed Simone Biles (or at least gotten a nod at the Olympics). I’d contort myself into whatever I thought someone wanted—sassy Marc, nerdy Marc, even “unbothered and mysterious” Marc.

The letters reminded me I didn’t need to audition for anyone’s love. My whole, vulnerable self could show up and be enough. And guess what? The next time someone tried to treat my feelings like an optional side dish instead of the entrée, I was ready to pass on the whole meal.

2. I Set (and Kept) Boundaries.

Boundaries used to feel like those velvet ropes at celebrity events—there to keep what I wanted most just out of reach. But my letters reframed them as acts of self-respect. I didn’t need to explain why I wasn’t OK with Friday-night texts at 11:57 PM or why I wouldn’t entertain hot-and-cold behavior anymore.

When you write to yourself with love, you start to prioritize your own well-being, no disclaimers attached. It’s like carving your own lane on the highway of life—and suddenly, it feels okay to go the speed limit instead of rushing to keep up with someone else.

Tips for Starting Your Own Letter-Writing Habit

If you’re curious about trying this habit yourself, here are a few tips to get started:

  • 1. Keep it Low-Stakes.
    You’re not submitting this to The New Yorker—it can be messy, raw, even petty if you need it to be. The important part is being honest.

  • 2. Focus on the Present.
    While it’s tempting to dwell on everything that went wrong or fantasize about the future, take a moment to check in with yourself about today. What are you feeling? What do you need to hear?

  • 3. Be Your Biggest Fan.
    Write to yourself like that one overly supportive friend who hypes you up no matter what. Turn the volume up on compassion and let self-criticism take a backseat, at least for a little while.

My Biggest Lesson

Here’s what no one tells you: Being your own soft landing isn’t just empowering—it’s transformational. The love letters I wrote to myself over the years didn’t just save me from bad dates or existential dread; they reintroduced me to someone I genuinely liked.

Because at the end of the day, whether your love life is a Luther Vandross ballad or a J.Lo rom-com, your relationship with yourself is the one that sets the tone for everything else. So pull out that journal, write yourself a love story, and remember: You’ll always deserve the kind of love that feels like coming home—starting with your own.