Better With Friends
Origin story + Meditation + Creative Prompt
Dear Fellow Human,
How are you, my friend, at this turning of years? Tender? Relieved? Anxious? Nonplussed? Do you feel this is a meaningless changing of numbers, or do you feel that something deeper shifts as one year fades and another emerges? How do you meet this moment?
While some relatives travel, I am spending this turning of the years with their four cats. For three whiskered weeks, I am riding feline tides as they oscillate between thumping frolics and heating pad-induced comas. And as I surf the cat waves, I’ve noticed that despite their reputation for being independent, these four cats are in constant interrelation with each other.
These cats know (in the nonhuman way that cats know things) that life is better with friends. That said, Fellow Human, being in relationship is complex. And it’s that pesky complexity of human relating that brought me to write to you.
I could tell you the origin of Love Letters to Humanity in one word:
Heartbreak.
But, Fellow Human, that word does not convey the lightless smithereens of my heart in the moment that Love Letters to Humanity emerged. Imagine a broken heart—fissures here and there. But then imagine those fissures spreading until the heart breaks into pieces, and those pieces then cracking and breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, what is the finest powder you can imagine? Maybe ash? I wrote my first love letter to humanity with a heart demolished into dust.
With a crumbling heart, I had learned a treasure trove of hard lessons. Here are a few gems—that good people can behave in horrible ways; that love does not always survive the passage of time; and that when we accrue an overwhelming collection of loss and hardship, we need more presence and holding from the community than is available in this age of overwhelm, distraction, and disconnection.
To that stew of trauma, add a botched move in which—while attempting to live near family—I ended up in isolated and dysfunctional circumstances. Within this solitary experience, I found something that made me feel whole and luminous: knowing that the pain I felt was pain that all humans know, and then writing letters that offered love and compassion to all the unknown people who felt the pain I felt.
I began writing Love Letters to the Lonely (read/hear a sample of that book in progress here), and then branched out to Love Letters to Humanity. This process began in isolation in 2023, but as we shift into 2026, I’d like to see if this project might somehow build community. So, Fellow Human, I have two new offerings for you:
Love Letters to Humanity Reader Community
Could this be a conversation, Fellow Human?
In one word, name your heartbreak: Betrayal? Greed? Cruelty? Silence? Avoidance? Ignorance?
I will choose one heartbreak from the reader community and do my best to write a love letter that responds to this pain next month.
Love Letters to Humanity Artist Community
I am reaching out to fellow creatives and asking them how their art is a kind of love letter to humanity. Each month, I’ll share one artist’s answers. For this month, here’s one of my oldest friends from back in our wild punk daze (sic) of the 90s, Zoe Poster.
RD: How has humanity broken your heart?
ZP: By choosing to view one another as enemies and competitors instead of friends and collaborators. Life is short... why not choose love?
RD: How is your work a kind of love letter to humanity?
ZP: By sharing a thread of connection through beauty, weird magic, and a sense of humor :)
RD: Please tell your fellow humans how to receive your love letters:
ZP: Here are my two picture books: The Night Wild and Pete and Leonie
Sending love and wishes for a bright and heart-ful 2026 to you, my dear Fellow Human. Thank you for reading, and thank you for all the ways you yourself turn your heartaches into love letters. <3 Rae
