The Ink in the Mailbox

February in New England is a test of character. The holidays are long gone, the snow has lost its novelty, and the gray days seem to stretch on forever. It is the time of year when we naturally retreat indoors, seeking warmth and comfort. But lately, I’ve noticed that "retreating" often just means staring at a different screen—trading the work monitor for the phone, the phone for the TV.

We talked about Valentine’s Day last week, and by now, the aisles are picked clean of the good chocolate and the obligatory greeting cards. But as we approach the weekend, I’ve been thinking about the difference between a "notification" and a "note."

In my Year of Charting Forward, I’ve committed to living a more analog life—stripping away the digital clutter to find something more rugged and real underneath. It’s why I find myself returning to the wisdom of the 1911 Boy Scout Handbook or the philosophy of the "Strenuous Life." There is a discipline in doing things the hard way, or rather, the slow way.

Sending a text message costs you nothing. It is frictionless. You can dictate a "Thinking of you!" text while waiting for your coffee to brew and forget you sent it five seconds later. It is efficient, sure. But is efficiency really what we want when it comes to the people we care about?

There is no efficiency in a handwritten letter. It requires supplies. It requires a surface. It requires you to sit down, uncap a pen, and physically carve your thoughts onto paper. You can’t backspace a mistake in ink; you have to own it.

That effort is exactly the point.

This is the heartbeat behind The Postcard Club, the postcard subscription service I launched earlier this month. It wasn’t just about creating a product; it was about creating a vehicle for connection. I wanted to reclaim the mailbox from the tyranny of bills and junk mail. I wanted to give myself—and you—a reason to buy stamps again.

There is a specific, tactile magic in receiving a piece of mail that isn’t a demand for payment. seeing a friend’s handwriting—the loop of their 'L's, the slant of their script—carries a piece of their personality that Helvetica font never will. A text message lives in the cloud, destined to be buried under tomorrow’s spam. A postcard lives on the fridge. It becomes a part of the home.

So, this Valentine’s weekend, once the dinner is over and the chocolates are opened, I’m challenging myself to cap the marker on the digital noise. I’m going to sit at the desk, perhaps with the fire going, and write.

If you’re feeling the mid-winter drift, try it. Don’t just double-tap a photo to show you care. Pick up a pen. The ink lasts longer than the battery life, and the sentiment lasts even longer than that.

See you on the road,

Mike