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Write More Love Letters.


On April 9th, 2013,

in a therapist’s office in Berkeley, California, my life came to a crashing halt.  My long-standing relationship was over, and it hit me like a force field.  In slow motion, I watched myself walk through a permeable, transparent wall, accidentally almost.  The walls of my perfect bubble bent and popped, and everything was different.

The old life was un-recoverable.  The new life was unimaginable.  And I had yet to see that I’d been given an undeniable push out of a nest I’d needed to leave.  There was flailing, the Ugly Cry, and panic.

But slowly, there was focus.  And listening.  And eventually, understanding.  I decided to drive the 409 miles back to my hometown in Southern California, not knowing why, but just simply that I had to go.

Driving the 409 miles back home,

I played all the music I’d ever loved.  As the sky changed colors — orange and pink and eventually deep violet blueblack — I cried.  For hours driving south on the 5 freeway in the Central Valley, I sobbed.  I grieved for the sweet innocence of my Soul; and said thank you to the resilience of my great warrior heart.  I mourned the wounded parts of me that were finally, blessedly, loosening their grip on me, and as the sun set, I felt lighter.  Like ghosts that needed to be released from the physical world, I felt the specter-like beliefs of not-enoughness passing peacefully into the world of Spirit, where everything is born and returns, to be transmuted and purified into what waits for us on the road ahead. . . .

I looked out at the deep purple sky, and suddenly headlights flashed spray-painted words on a freeway overpass as I drove by.  The message was this:



©MorganWadePhotography_WriteMoreLoveLetters (1 of 1)


The next morning,

waking on a tiny air mattress in a dear friend’s apartment, I journaled, and as I journaled, the message became clear.

And so.  I returned to the Bay Area, and I bought a typewriter.


Go simple.  Go solo.  Go now.

(Audrey Southerland said that.)

Stepping into a life with meaning is a bit like walking out of a bubble; the bubble — the previous life — stays intact, but it floats away.  It’s no longer ours to inhabit, and realizing that feels like falling.  It can be terrifying.  We’ve all walked — and sometimes been pushed — out of many a bubble.  And every time, inevitably, there is always a moment (or many moments) where we wonder if it’s too late to climb back into the bubble and just go about business as usual.

But this is never the right thing to do, and trying to force it ends in inevitable suffering.  We can’t hold onto what does not belong to us, even if we don’t know where our next step will land.  I believe, in these moments, if we’re watchful and present, we receive undeniable messages about the next right thing to do, or say, or follow.  And when we receive the messages (especially ones as clear as on the freeway overpass) our only duty is to honor them.  To honor them is to take action.


The cave you fear to enter
holds the treasure you seek.

– Joseph Campbell


 Spiritual Life Coaching


You, Me & Everyone

Listen: we’re all living with some small fear.  Some of us are living with monstrous, Godzilla-sized fears that wrap arms around chests and hold hands over mouths, so tight they cannot breathe, nor do they dare to move.  Some fears are as silent as the shift of air beneath butterfly wings.

I knew the only thing I knew I could truly count on with this project was that somewhere, someone would open one of these letters.  And in that moment — or maybe years later — it would be exactly what they needed.  Somewhere, someday, someone would feel the Truth of things: the possibility that even though Fear, and even though Sorrow, and even though a million horrible things, there is Love.

Someone, somewhere is loving you.  Putting fingers to decades-old typewriter keys, hammering out a message for you.  It tickles me absolutely magenta that I can be that person.

I drop these love-bombs everywhere I go.  It has become a meditation.  I stash them in surprising places that call my name (between cans of Pringles at a gas station; in a napkin holder at a stanky diner).  When I sit down at my typewriter (or run flailing to it because a message has just popped in from the ether), it’s not for me.

In fact, these letters are not from me; they’re from you, from your heart, your Soul.  Seriously: what are the odds of finding one of these things?  If you found it, it’s yours.

And I’d love to hear from you.

Click “Connect” above and tell me about how your love letter found you.
Or email me here: morganwadelovesyou@gmail.com
Or tag me on Instagram: @__morganlovesyou__ (or click the Instagram widget on the sidebar on the right)
Tag with #writemoreloveletters

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