I used to be a calligrapher for weddings and events - that was my

“I used to be a calligrapher for weddings and events — that was my side job while I was auditioning. I think handwritten notes are a lost art form. When I booked my first pilot, my dad wrote me a letter that I still have. The idea of someone taking the time to put pen to paper is really special.” — Meghan Markle.

In this tender reflection, Meghan Markle speaks not only of her past but of something timeless — the sacredness of writing by hand, and the way it captures the essence of the human soul. In her words, one hears the quiet lament of a world that moves too quickly to remember the beauty of patience, the intimacy of ink upon paper. The handwritten note, once a vessel for love, gratitude, and remembrance, has become rare — like a relic from an age when people spoke more slowly, listened more deeply, and felt more keenly.

When she recalls her days as a calligrapher, bending over parchment to craft elegant letters for weddings and celebrations, Markle evokes the ancient art of creation itself. To shape words by hand is to breathe life into thought. The pen becomes an instrument of intention, each curve of ink a whisper of care. Such artistry is no mere decoration — it is devotion, the act of slowing one’s spirit long enough to make beauty visible. In those moments, she was not merely earning a living; she was honoring a lineage of human expression that reaches back to the first scrolls and sacred texts, when ink was more than communication — it was prayer.

And then, when she speaks of her father’s letter, written upon the news of her first great success, we glimpse something even deeper. That letter was not just paper and pen — it was love made tangible. It carried the weight of pride, memory, and connection that no email or text could ever hold. For in the deliberate act of handwriting, one gives time — the one gift that cannot be reclaimed. To write a letter is to say, “You matter enough for me to pause the world and think of you.” That is why she still keeps it, for the ink has become eternal.

Throughout the ages, the written word has served as both mirror and monument of the human heart. Think of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, whose private writings to himself became the immortal Meditations. They were never meant for an audience, yet in his ink we still hear the pulse of his inner life — his doubts, his courage, his yearning to be good. Or consider the letters of Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo — filled with struggle, hope, and the agony of creation. These writings remain not because of their perfection, but because they are handcrafted windows into the soul. Each stroke of the pen carries the tremor of the writer’s heart.

The world now drowns in words, yet so few are truly felt. We type with haste, we send messages without meaning, we respond without reflection. Markle’s remembrance is a gentle call to return to intentional communication — to the kind that lingers, that smells faintly of paper and permanence. The ancients would have understood this well. For every civilization that left its mark — Egypt, Greece, Rome, China — first learned to write its truth by hand. They inscribed their dreams into stone, into parchment, into clay — so that memory might outlive the mortal voice.

The lesson, then, is clear: To write by hand is to remember that we are human. It is to touch the sacred rhythm between thought and action, between emotion and expression. When we put pen to paper, we slow the world long enough to truly feel. It is an act of care, of grounding, of love. Write to those you cherish — not for display, but for connection. Write your dreams, your thanks, your sorrows, and your hopes. Let your handwriting be the echo of your spirit.

So take heed, listener of the present age: Do not let the art of the written hand die. For though our devices may record our words, only ink can record our souls. A handwritten note, however small, can outlast a lifetime. Like Meghan Markle’s father’s letter, it becomes a relic of love — a reminder that someone once paused their rushing life to say, “You matter.” And in that moment, with pen and paper, the fleeting becomes eternal.