A Letter to My Child, For When I'm Gone

You've thought about it. Maybe at night, when you can't sleep. Maybe when your child does something that makes you proud, and you wish you could tell them you saw that strength in them. Maybe after a diagnosis, or during a quiet moment when mortality simply becomes real.

You want to write a letter to be opened after you're gone. A letter that will reach them at their wedding, graduation, first heartbreak, or the day they become a parent themselves. A letter that says all the things you might not have time to say in person.

But something stops you.

Maybe it's the weight of it—how do you capture a lifetime of love in words? How do you say goodbye without actually saying goodbye? How do you write advice for situations you'll never see unfold? The task feels both urgent and impossible. So you don't write it. And you hope there will be time later. There's always later.

Except there isn't always.

What you're really asking is this: How do I make sure my voice, my love, my presence matters after I can't be there?

A letter to your child for when you're gone is one of the most powerful things you can create. It's not a will. It's not legal language or financial instructions. It's intimate. It's real. It's the conversation you wish you could have across time.

These letters hold memories your children might forget—the ordinary moments that shaped them. They hold your values, explained in your voice, at a time when they need to remember why they matter. They hold permission: to make mistakes, to forgive themselves, to live fully. They hold love with no conditions, no arguments, no resentment. Just pure, crystalline love.

Here's what matters most: your letter doesn't need to be perfect. It needs to be honest. Your child doesn't need eloquence—they need to hear from you. They need the voice they know, saying the things only you can say. A simple "I'm proud of you" from a parent they've lost is infinitely more precious than any polished prose from a stranger.

"I've watched you for twenty-three years now, and I've seen you do hard things. You didn't always believe in yourself, but I always believed in you. So on the days when you can't believe in yourself, I need you to borrow my belief. Because if I know anything, it's that you are capable of so much more than you imagine. You come from strong people. You are one of those strong people. And I'm so proud to be your parent."

What makes a letter like this actually arrive after you're gone? That's where Dear Forward is different. We don't treat your letters as digital files to be forgotten. We store them encrypted, secured with the same technology that protects state secrets. We partner with attorneys to ensure they're held in escrow, completely separate from any company infrastructure. We send annual confirmations to verify you're still the one in control. And when the time comes, we deliver them physically—as a printed, bound letter on archival paper that will last generations.

No servers can shut down. No accounts can be deleted. No tech company can go bankrupt and lose your words. Your letter becomes a physical artifact, stored securely, released only according to your instructions. It's built on the assumption that the most important words of your life deserve more than digital fragility.

This isn't morbid. This isn't giving up. This is honoring the fact that love doesn't end when life does. It's saying: I matter to my children. My words matter. My presence should reach them across whatever distance stands between us.

The hardest part isn't writing the letter. The hardest part is knowing you should write it and not doing it. Every day that passes is a day you haven't captured what you want your child to hear. Every year, you carry the weight of words unsaid. And if something happens—suddenly, without warning—those words are gone forever. No second chances. No "I should have." Just silence.

You don't have to have everything figured out when you sit down to write. You don't need perfect penmanship or a special occasion. You just need to start. Write about the moment you held them for the first time. Write about a choice they made that made you proud. Write about what you hope for them. Write about how much you love them. Write about the person you want them to become, and why. Write about your own fears and failures, so they know they don't have to be perfect either.

Write it. Seal it. Store it safely. And then live fully, knowing your voice will reach them when they need it most.