IT IS true—and a shame—that most people do not write letters anymore. Instead, they prefer to express their feelings through text messages, social media forums, blogs, or Facebook posts. As a result, our daily interactions have become faceless, impersonal, and temporary. Very few people, if any at all, still pause to appreciate the lasting power of the written word.
Years ago, whenever parents had the chance to talk to their children, they were sometimes disappointed because they didn’t know how to communicate exactly what they wanted to say. So, they resorted to letters. Some of these handwritten letters were so beautifully composed and deeply inspiring that their recipients cherished and kept them in personal files for decades. Love letters, letters between friends, or notes from a parent to a child always carry sweet reminders of emotions that time has long swept away.
And years ago, whenever a thought struck me that I wanted to share with my kids—two sons and a daughter—whether it was a piece of parental advice or an expression of joy or frustration, I would type it out on my computer and save it. I wanted to tell them everything they needed to hear or learn from me. Eventually, this motivated me to write dedicated letters to them. Because they were too young to read the words at the time, I decided to start keeping a journal for them. I hoped that when the proper time came, I could hand it over, and they would finally understand how much I loved them and what the circumstances of their growing-up years were really like.That was long before I started blogging, and a couple of years before I opened a Facebook account and added my kids to my circle of online friends. If I had possessed those outlets back then, I probably would have written differently and posted my thoughts online. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to keep up with the journal. After a little over a year, I stopped writing entries entirely due to my heavy workload—that was the same year I enrolled in law school and became a regular contributor to a local literary magazine.
My journal, which was written on loose-leaf paper, fell into total disarray and sat buried deep in my personal files until I finally retrieved it a few months ago. My kids are all grown up now: my firstborn is just a year away from completing his secondary education, my second is in grade seven, and my youngest is in grade three. Tragically, cancer claimed their mother about two years ago.
Just recently, I spotted a wonderful collection of letters online written by well-known authors to their favorite people: their children. Inspired by the warm, fatherly tone of those letters, my mind drifted back ten years. I decided to dig into my own collection of letters—unsent letters, truly—that I had written to my own children.
For this post, I have decided to share a sample of those letters, one for each of my children. It is time for them to read them now. This also goes to prove that it isn’t really hard to write a letter to your own child when you aren't expecting a response. Perhaps reading this will inspire you to write letters to your own son or daughter.
It is never too late to start!
September 1, 2004
Dear Eya,
I saw you walking along the street as I left the house early this morning to go to the office. You were with your yaya, Apong Andang, who patiently guided your tiny steps. Since you have always been an early riser just like us, your yaya has made walking and hopping along the street a part of your early morning routine—which I think is wonderful for your tender legs. You seemed to thoroughly enjoy walking back and forth on that short stretch of road right in front of our house.
This morning, I was surprised to see you walking so fast. It wasn't your usual waddling duckling gait; your feet were steady and your body was almost perfectly upright. In fact, you were practically putting on a sprint for me. And, of course, that familiar, sweet, innocent smile was written all over your radiant face—a beautiful sight to look at alongside the first glow of morning sunshine.
You were just a few meters away from the house when I called out to you. You darted toward me, shrieking with joy, completely unmindful of your yaya’s attempts to hold onto you lest you fall on the pavement. I hugged and kissed you goodbye, which is also a cherished part of our daily routine.
In hindsight, it was a mistake to call out to you when I should have just let you enjoy your walk with your back turned to me. The moment I started to walk away, your lovely smile turned into a frown, and then into a sob. You no longer waved your little hands the way you had been taught to do when someone says goodbye.
This is always the hardest part of my morning before I leave for work: leaving my little baby girl behind when she is in the saddest of moods. But I must go.
Dad
February 4, 2005
Dear Dudoy,
You lost your snack box again. It seems to have gone the way of the crayons, rulers, and pencils that you never managed to bring home from school after only a day or two of use. Your Mom is always reminding you to keep your belongings and toys in their proper places when you're finished with them, but you seem to easily forget such simple reminders.
As expected, your Mom was angry this morning, but I wasn't. For one thing, I knew there was nothing I could do to bring the lost snack box back, and I realized that simply lecturing you again wouldn't fix the problem. Perhaps your mind was so focused on your schoolwork that you simply forgot to keep your things in order. Or perhaps a bully grabbed them out of your bag without you noticing. I am hopeful that someone will find your snack box soon and return it to your teacher, who will then give it back to you. I know for a fact that your Mom carefully labeled all of your things at the start of the school year.
Lately, I have realized that it was a terrible mistake to punish you for every single infraction you committed. I have deeply hated myself for shouting at you at times. I have learned my lesson, and looking at your situation now, I know there are far more important things to consider than a bout of forgetfulness or carelessness.
When I used to reprimand you for every little wrong, I wasn’t necessarily teaching you the right kind of discipline; I was merely imposing my own preferences and demands. My judgment was too often clouded by sudden surges of emotion. It feels natural for a father to want his instructions executed perfectly, but instead of counting to the usual three, I now force myself to count to ten. I try to look at the root cause of why something went wrong, dwelling on that before jumping straight to a solution.
I think this new approach has paid off well recently. I read a story in the second volume of Chicken Soup for the Soul about a father who harshly punished his son for accidentally ruining his garden. The mother gently told him: "We're raising kids, not flowers."
Those words helped me come to terms with myself. I never want a lost snack box or missing crayons to be a reason for you to be severely punished, or a reason for you to lose respect for me or your Mom. When your Kuya N-yel left his P.E. uniform at school the other day, I didn't say a single harsh word to him. Instead, I told your Mom to advise him to do a thorough search at school the next day, and to ask his teachers and classmates if they had seen it. If it turns up after a hard search, great. If not, we can always replace it.
For now, a simple, gentle knee-to-knee chat or a brief reminder is more than enough to address your lost snack box. A missing box or a lost T-shirt costs us a hundred pesos or so to replace, but you and your brother are entirely priceless.
Dad
March 8, 2005
Dear N-yel,
I was deeply alarmed a few days ago when I noticed smudges of dried blood inside your left ear. You may have harmed your eardrum by scratching inside it with your index finger or another sharp object. You tend to do that every time your ear feels uncomfortable—a habit that has unfortunately grown worse lately. This explains the number of used cotton buds I've found thrown under the bed and tucked into various corners of the house, hidden away so your Mom wouldn't see them.
If this escalates into a serious medical issue, you could lose your hearing. The mere thought of you facing a permanent physical disability weighs heavily on my heart. When you were still in your Mom’s womb, I constantly worried about your health, knowing that a severe congenital condition is the ultimate, lifelong fear of every expectant parent. It was only then that I realized every single baby born healthy and whole is a profound cause for celebration and immense gratitude to God.
Yet, that underlying fear has never truly left me, even after you safely passed the crucial first seven years of your life. What if you suffer a terrible mishap—a dangerous fall, a car accident, or accidentally swallow something poisonous? Any of these could permanently rob you of your motor skills or your senses. Honestly, it scares the life out of me.
Your Mom feels exactly the same way, though she tends to react more hysterically when an actual crisis hits. I still remember when you were just a baby and we almost lost you to severe diarrhea and dehydration caused by amoebiasis. Even now, whenever you complain of a stomachache or experience a bout of loose bowel movements, we instantly worry that those old parasites might still be lingering in your system. Because of that, we are incredibly strict about ensuring you only drink clean, safe water at home.
Keeping you and your siblings healthy, safe, and whole will always be my absolute highest priority—far more important to me than anything my paycheck could ever buy.
Dad
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