Dear all,
I’m almost emotional to share the first Collective Letter, as I wasn’t sure if anyone would respond to the call. When I first put out the idea, it felt like an experiment in sharing — and in overcoming the resistance that often comes with it. But as the first notes arrived, I realized it was, above all, an exercise in active listening.
The question I set as a prompt for September was an opening one, and I’m not sure if everyone who sent their note followed it. I know I kind of did — my current mood is one of rage and resentment. Here it is:
If someone were truly listening without judgment, what would you dare to say?
Some of what follows is raw, some tender, others weary. These letters don’t try to fix or solve; they simply share what it feels like to be human right now — laying bare what usually hides between grocery lists, bus rides, and late-night thoughts.
“
Dear collective,
I spent an hour today in what used to be my daughter’s bedroom. She moved out two months ago, but her posters are still on the walls, her books half-packed in boxes, her jumper draped over the chair like she’ll be back any second. Except she won’t.
I sat on the floor and let the quiet fill my soul. For years, that room was a battlefield of slammed doors, mess and loud music, and I used to dream about the peace I’d have when she was gone. Now the silence feels unbearable. I catch myself standing in the doorway, looking for her.
No one tells you that parenting is a series of goodbyes, each one smaller than the last until the big one finally comes. I’m proud of her, but God, I miss the mess.
—Simona
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I don’t know how to keep up anymore. The bills eat my salary before I even touch it. I’m embarrassed to admit it to friends — everyone looks like they’re thriving. But I’m not. I’m barely managing.
—Anonymous
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I used to be a nerd and quite an intense person in high school, and that connected me to a very truthful core of my being — one avid for intensity in intellectual conversations but also in the depth of feelings. Over time, that sparkle became very much numbed, and I am still mapping all the causes for this along the journey.
The main idea I’d like to share is that some of us become enveloped in a tiring fog as we grow into adulthood, and that a way back to vitality is through the clarity of our quirks, and then fully living them, as we want them to be lived.
—
“
In these very dark times, as we witness a genocide broadcast live, an episode from some years ago often comes to mind — about racism, discrimination, and privilege.
Years ago, an older lady sat in front of me on the tram. She was visibly upset and asked if I had two euros, explaining that someone on the metro had just stolen her wallet and she had no money to get home on her way back. I gave her my only two euros. She took the gesture as an invitation to confidence and began sharing her views on extracomunitari (non-EU citizens, that’s it), convinced that a brute extracomunitario had stolen her wallet (note: I’m white, with Mediterranean-Italian features, and I speak Italian almost at a native level).
‘We don’t need them here. We should expel everyone and close the borders. They are animals, not people. They’ve stolen our money, our jobs, our homes.’
I stayed silent, partly because her vitriolic rant took me by surprise.
When my stop came, I stood up and, as calmly as I could, said:
‘Signora, I’m an extracomunitaria, and I just gave you my last two euros so you could get home. Not all extracomunitari are the same, just as not all Italians are.’
I wished her a good day and stepped off the tram.
—
Thank you
To those who shared their thoughts: thank you for your vulnerability. To those who read them: thank you for holding these stories with care. If something here resonated with you, or if you feel moved to share your own note or letter, I’d love to include your voice in the next Collective Letter.
Until then, may these words remind you that whatever you are carrying, somewhere in this chaotic world, someone else is carrying a similar weight.
October’s Gatherings
If you’re in the mood for good company and a journaling practice from the comfort of your armchair, join us for this month’s Clarity Pages:
Thursday, October 9
10.00 - 11.30 CET
Online
Saturday, October 18
10.00 - 11.30 CET
Online
How to join?
Monthly paid subscription. If you value the intention behind Eirene Cafe and find it positively impacting your well-being, consider supporting it with a paid subscription. This gives you access to the Clarity Pages, and you’ll receive the meeting link the day before the gathering.
Payment per gathering. If a one-time payment suits you better right now, you can choose to pay per gathering. Your subscription to Eirene Cafe will remain free, and you’ll still receive the meeting link the day before the gathering.
Note: If paying isn’t possible right now and you’d benefit from the monthly gatherings, email me at eirene.cafe@gmail.com, and I’ll send the meeting link the day before the gathering —no questions asked.