Love Letters I Never Sent
A collection of tiny prose fragments about the people we leave behind, and the ones we never quite meet.
A woman of ink-stained fingers and quiet reflections, Ivy writes what most people are too afraid to name. Her books trace the undercurrents of daily life—the bruised thoughts, the unspoken griefs, & fleeting joys that pass us like shadows at dusk.
I don’t write to impress, persuade, or shout over the noise. I write to notice—to sit with the thoughts most people step over. These pages are made of moments: the soft ones we forget to hold, the sharp ones we try to ignore, the in-between ones that never quite resolve. If you’re looking for answers, I can’t promise them. But if you’re looking for stillness, for clarity in the static, for a voice that understands the weight of quiet things—I’ve left pieces of myself for you here.
My newest book is a collection of quiet reckonings—short essays and observations written for the moments when life feels tender, unspoken, or beautifully out of place. It’s not meant to fix you, just to sit beside you while you sort through the ache.
A library of moments—each book a different lens on the human condition, stitched together with honesty, silence, and just enough shadow. They weren’t written to be devoured, but to be returned to—like a well-worn chair or a favorite line you keep underlining.
For the quietly curious, a slow letter delivered to your inbox—part essay, part observation, part invitation to think a little deeper. No noise, no fluff—just honest words for thoughtful people. Signing up ensures you get the most important thoughts and ponderings.
This book found its way into more hands than I ever expected—proof that quiet words still have weight. It’s a collection rooted in vulnerability, the kind of writing that sits with you in silence and says, me too. Readers return to it not for answers, but for comfort, clarity, and the rare feeling of being understood.
They arrive in quiet places—between mile markers, at café windows, in the middle of someone else’s story. I don’t go searching for them. They just find me, like forgotten feelings returning with new names. These are the words I bring back, tucked into pages, softened by distance.
Visit the blog for quiet essays, soft truths, and words that don’t shout.
“A quiet exploration of emotional bruises—the tender moments we pretend don’t sting, but carry anyway. Through essays and reflections, Ivy Writerly examines the ache that lives in kindness, memory, vulnerability, and the things we never quite say out loud. This book isn’t loud or dramatic—it just knows where the nerves are.”
Emotions I’ve mapped, moments I’ve sat with until they softened. Writing is how I made sense of them;
reading is how others get to find their own way through.
This is where the quiet things go. The blog contains essays, thoughts, and half-finished feelings—written in the margins of real life, between cups of tea and conversations I wish I’d had.
Not quite polished, not always profound—just honest.
A collection of tiny prose fragments about the people we leave behind, and the ones we never quite meet.
On boredom, restlessness, and learning to trust the quiet parts of life.
A reflection on ambiguity, duality, and the tension of almost-knowing.
Gentle doesn’t always mean painless. On the softness that leaves marks.
What I’ve learned about subtle shifts, quiet endings, and the storms we don’t see coming.
On the discomfort of progress and why the middle is its own kind of sacred.