I received my letter from the Dad Letter Project on Monday.
My heart was already beating faster as I walked back from the mailbox. The envelope—light green, handwritten—sat heavy in my hand. The handwriting immediately reminded me of my dad’s.
I wasn’t ready to open it.
I set it on my desk in my office and let it sit there for a couple of hours. Nervous energy zipped through me, which is awesome for someone with neuropathy. After dinner, I finally felt steady enough to go back to my office, sit down, and open it.
Inside was thick, beautiful paper. With a shaky breath and shaky hands, I unfolded it slowly and began to read.
And before I go further, if you’re unfamiliar with the Dad Letter Project, it began in 2025 when a daughter posted on TikTok about her newly retired dad, who wanted to be “everyone’s dad”. The kind who writes letters, encourages, and reminds you that you matter in this world. The response was incredible. Messages poured in from people who their dads had passed away, never had one show up for them, or hadn’t heard “I’m proud of you” in a very long time. What started as one dad writing a few letters quietly grew into something much bigger.
That was the letter I was holding.
I mentioned that the handwriting reminded me of my own dad’s. He was never known for penmanship. As he got older, it became even messier. I used to hold up his notes and say, “What in the world does this say?” He’d just shrug. Smile. And make me guess.
This letter felt like that.
The man who wrote to me shared that his own father had passed in 2020. He’s writing a book for therapeutic reasons. Not necessarily to publish, just to process. And he encouraged me, gently but firmly, to keep writing mine. To let grief and authenticity move from my heart to the keyboard.
I sobbed while I read it.
He included a quote I know I’ll return to on the hard days, the days doubt creeps in, and I question whether any of this matters.
I didn’t go into this expecting it to replace my dad. Nothing ever could. I wasn’t looking for that. I was hoping for encouragement. Maybe a little kick in the pants when it comes to finishing my book. Some good ‘ole dad wisdom.
What I didn’t anticipate was how deeply it would stir something within me.
To the outside world, it may seem silly to some to want a letter from a dad who is technically a stranger.
But if you’re in the Dead Dads Club, you understand.
We don’t want replacements. We want connection. We want someone to say, “Keep going. I’m proud of you.” Those words still matter. They always will.
My dad’s words come in whispers and brief encounters in dreams. Some days, that isn’t enough, but I hold on to them as long as I can.
No letter will ever compare to the emails, texts, and the occasional card my dad wrote. I reread those often. They are sacred.
But this letter?
It absolutely made my day.
And I’m really glad I said yes.
I love you so much honey.