Something has been quietly fading from our daily lives: email correspondence. Once a dominant mode of communication, it’s increasingly bypassed in favor of faster, more casual methods. People rarely write emails now, not because they lack something to say, but because they no longer want to compose.
To write an email is to think. It asks for structure, tone, and intention. But many avoid this formality. In a world that favors immediacy, crafting even a few cohesive paragraphs feels excessive. Why write when you can just message? Why build a narrative when a few lines, or even a single emoji, can suffice?
Chat platforms have made communication easier, but also lighter in weight. A message can be abrupt, fragmented, or unfinished. It doesn’t need to be a complete thought. And this, for many, is a relief. There’s no pressure to get the tone right, no need to polish your sentences. It’s just talking. But something gets lost in that shift: the act of intentional writing.
The Shape of Thought
An email, at its best, isn’t just functional. It’s a shaped thought. Even a simple reply carries within it decisions about what to say, how to say it, and how to respect the recipient’s attention. There’s a kind of presence in writing an email that isn’t demanded by a chat message.
When we write emails, we pause. We consider. We try to connect dots. We read over what we’ve written before hitting send. This isn’t just etiquette. It’s thinking in motion. The process of writing helps us understand our own ideas more clearly.
Chat strips this away. It favors speed over structure. It doesn’t ask you to organize your thoughts, only to express them as they come. And in doing so, it quietly changes the way we relate to one another.
Inbox Fatigue
It’s also true that email itself has become overwhelming. The average inbox is buried under promotions, system alerts, marketing campaigns, and updates no one asked for. Many people have given up trying to keep their inboxes clean. The mailbox, once a space for meaningful exchange, now resembles a noisy public square.
So it’s no wonder that we look for other ways to communicate. We’re told to keep emails short, to respect the recipient’s time. But once the message becomes too short, we question why it’s not just a chat. The line between email and chat becomes blurry, and the latter always wins in convenience.
But that convenience has a cost. We start treating all communications the same. Urgency creeps in. Every ping feels like something we should respond to right away. We lose the rhythm that email used to offer; the ability to respond thoughtfully, not instantly.
Letter Writing as a Lost Practice
Long before email, people wrote letters. Not just for updates or logistics, but to share themselves. A letter could contain a reflection, a story, a question. It had a beginning and an end. It arrived after days or weeks, and the reply came just as slowly. There was something human about it, something shaped by time, not technology.
Even email, in its early years, carried some of that spirit. People wrote longer messages. They re-read, revised, and took care in what they said. A series of email exchanges could resemble a meaningful dialogue, not unlike the letters of old. There was space for nuance, and the pause between messages created a rhythm of respect.
Today, most messages are too fast to be thoughtful. Too brief to hold weight. We no longer write to think; we just talk to respond.
What We Miss When We Don’t Compose
There’s something deeply satisfying about receiving a well-composed email. You can tell when someone has put time into their words. Their message carries more than just information. It carries presence. It shows that the sender didn’t just want to be heard but wanted to be understood.
When I receive such emails, I feel joy, not because of their length, but because of the care. And I’m happy to respond in kind. That’s how correspondence becomes something meaningful. Not a task, but a shared space where both sides engage in the act of writing as thinking.
But those moments are becoming rare. Most of the time, we just ping one another. And while I understand the reasons; we’re busy, we’re distracted; we’re overwhelmed, I still feel a quiet loss.
The Weight of Constant Connection
Chat communication is everywhere. It doesn’t ask you to wait. It’s fast, constant, and often global. I sometimes receive messages at odd hours, from different time zones. Even when I don’t reply, the notification buzzes like a silent demand. It’s not just communication anymore. It’s intrusion.
Chat makes everything feel like a phone call you didn’t ask for. Even if you ignore it, it lingers. And because it’s so fragmented, it requires more effort to understand. I often find myself asking questions just to get the full context. What used to be one well-written paragraph now becomes five disconnected lines scattered across the screen.
And the speed of chat trains us to respond before we reflect. We begin to value immediacy over clarity. Quantity over quality.
A Quiet Plea for Thoughtfulness
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. But I still believe in the value of composing a thought. I believe in writing as a form of thinking. And I don’t mean that in an abstract way; I experience it every day. Whether I’m journaling, blogging, or responding to a colleague, I find that writing helps me think more clearly and live more intentionally.
When we take the time to write, we slow down. And in that slowing down, we see more. We say more. We become more precise and more human. Writing is not just about communication; it’s about reflection.
I’m not suggesting we abandon chat. It has its place. But we shouldn’t lose the practice of thoughtful writing. We shouldn’t give up the kind of communication that takes effort, because that effort often brings meaning.
Holding On to What Matters
Email correspondence may not be fashionable. It may be inefficient in a world addicted to speed. But it still holds value. It still offers something that chat can’t: the space to shape our thoughts, to craft our words, to respond with care.
When we write to each other thoughtfully, we aren’t just sharing information; we’re sharing presence. We’re saying: I thought about this. I thought about you. That kind of message matters. That kind of message lasts.
So I continue to write emails with care. Not because I must, but because I believe in what writing can do, for thinking, for connection, for culture.
And I hope there are still others out there who feel the same.
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