letters from the liminal
a creative documentary on love, land, and the labor of care
why this exploration
We live in a world that asks those who care—humanitarians, caregivers, civil servants, activists, frontline workers, and so many others—to hold both their own pain and the pain of others, often within systems where trauma, moral injury, institutional betrayal, and burnout are the norm.
Yet some people have learned to transform the liminal spaces between wounding and repair into places where love becomes a catalyst for survival and resistance—and where care becomes a practice that sustains both individual and collective healing.
This project is rooted in a simple but profound question:
What if writing from these spaces could become a ritual of healing?
my vision
I'm at the beginning stages of working on a multimedia project that explores how love and care sustain those tending to the world's wounds. Framed as letters from the liminal, this project weaves together personal narratives, immersive soundscapes, and land-based wisdom to explore how acts of love and care endure across borders, ecosystems, and institutions—grounding the work in the space between moral courage, collective care, and spiritual ecology.
At the heart of the project is the belief that letter writing can be more than a form of expression—it can be a ritual of healing and connection. One that invites stillness, reflection, and reconnection in moments when clarity hasn't yet arrived. Writing from the liminal becomes a way of honoring the grief, ache, and uncertainty, while still reaching toward love, connection, and possibility.
For this project I’m sourcing stories from humanitarian crises, civil service spaces, immigrant justice movements, community aid movements, caregiving environments, and land-based healing practices, and others, through letters written from the liminal spaces between:
trauma and healing - How do we tend to wounds while they're still tender?
burnout and rest - What does sustainable care look like in unsustainable systems?
extraction and resistance - How do we create while working within systems designed to consume?
grief and joy - How do we carry both heartbreak and hope?
seen and unseen - How do we honor the invisible labor of care and love?
the central questions driving this project
In this era of polycrisis and our march towards authoritarianism, I’ve been thinking about how do love and care sustain those tending to others' pain—and their own—within dehumanizing systems. How might we reimagine collective care and survival within the spaces between care and collapse, inside fractured ecosystems and broken social contracts? And how might the act of writing become a ritual of meaning-making—one that helps us name what matters, connect across distance, return to ourselves, and tend to the slow work of healing in the space between what was and what’s next?
who I'm seeking stories from
I'm looking for letters and stories from people navigating liminal spaces, particularly those who carry the labor of care:
Humanitarian workers, civil servants, and frontline responders
Caregivers, caretakers, healthcare workers, and community organizers
Immigrant justice advocates, attorneys, activists, educators, and social change workers
Anyone doing the labor of tending to others' pain alongside their own
contribute your voice
letters as ritual, letters as repair
Long before instant messages, we wrote to remember, to reach, to root ourselves in one another. Letters served as a bridge between moments, people, and places. In times of transition—especially those marked by rupture or grief—letters become lifelines, anchoring us when we feel unmoored and alone.
Research shows that expressive writing - particularly letter writing - helps us process trauma, build empathy, and create meaning from difficult experiences. When we write to ourselves with compassion, we activate the same neural pathways as receiving care from others. When we write to strangers or to the future or to the land, we create bridges across time and space.
In this way, writing letters from the liminal becomes both a ritual and a repair—an embodied act of returning to love in the midst of uncertainty, grief, and the slow work of healing.
beyond individual healing
My belief is that writing a letter from the liminal won’t just help us make sense of our own story—we’ll be participating in a collective ritual of remembrance and repair. Each letter becomes part of a living archive, a testament to how love not only persists, but also holds the capacity to transform and heal, even in the most challenging circumstances. In offering our words, we create threads of connection—reminding us that we’re not alone in these liminal spaces, and that when our stories are witnessed by others, they become a force for collective care and liberation.
how to participate
You can contribute to this project in several ways:
Write a letter from the liminal - Submit a written letter from your experience in these threshold spaces
Share your story through an interview - Participate in a 45-60 minute conversation about your experience
Both - Write a letter and also be interviewed for other parts of the project
how to write a letter from the liminal
letters from the liminal can take many forms. The invitation is to write from within the tension of the in-between—whether you’re recalling a moment from the past or navigating it in the present. Each letter becomes a way to bear witness to that complexity and to offer care, clarity, or truth from within it—not just in hindsight. Each category below includes a few sample letter ideas, grounded in different liminal spaces. These are not meant to be limiting, but rather to spark your own reflections. Your letter might speak from a different threshold entirely—and that’s part of the practice. Ultimately your letter will take the shape it needs to—rooted in your own truth and experience.
letters to yourself:
possible liminal spaces: trauma and healing, burnout and rest, grief and joy
a letter that traces your path through the in-between—naming the ache, the small anchors, the moments of doubt and grace, and what you’ve come to understand from the other side.
a note from the space between depletion and renewal, naming what your body is asking for now.
words of gentleness for the part of you that still flinches, still doubts, still hopes.
a message to the version of you who held everyone else’s pain without knowing how to hold your own.
a letter that names what it was like to live in the in-between—how you navigated uncertainty, what it asked of you, what it revealed, and how it feels to be where you are now.
letters to systems and spaces:
possible liminal spaces: burnout and resistance, silence and truth, dehumanization and reclamation
a letter to the system that demanded your sacrifice—naming what it took and what you’re reclaiming.
a message to the institution that betrayed your values—what you needed, what you gave, what you refuse to carry any longer.
words to the rooms where decisions were made without you—bearing witness to what was unseen or unspoken.
a note to the future—imagining what a more human, just, and loving system could feel like.
a letter of rupture—naming what broke, what you grieved, and what you’re building in its place.
letters to others:
possible liminal spaces: extraction and resistance, grief and joy, seen and unseen
a letter to a stranger walking a similar path—another caregiver, advocate, or helper in the quiet margins.
a note to a colleague trying to make change within a system that was never built for care.
words for someone you couldn’t save or reach—what you wish they could have heard, or known, or felt.
a message to fellow helpers about the cost of love in systems that don’t always recognize it—and how you’re learning to keep going anyway.
a letter to the unseen—the invisible hands and hearts who hold up the world with no recognition.
letters to the land:
possible liminal spaces: collapse and regeneration, harm and healing, disconnection and belonging
a letter of apology to the land for the ways we’ve turned away—and a promise to remember.
a letter to a place that held you during difficult transitions
a note of wonder for the tiny, persistent signs of life breaking through decay.
a message to the earth about what it has taught you about endurance, reciprocity, and return.
a letter from the edge—where fire, flood, drought, or displacement have changed the landscape of home.
Your letter might be raw and unfinished, polished and poetic, or somewhere in between. It might be one paragraph or several pages. There is no right or wrong way to do this—only the invitation to write from the truth of a space you’ve inhabited, or are still finding your way through—that place between what was and what’s next, where love becomes an act of resistance against systems designed to divide and dehumanize.
If you're interested in participating, just complete the form below.
This is a collaborative, intentional process in the early stages. I’ve done my best to design it with care and consent at every step:
Share your interest
Fill out the form below to tell me about your experience. You can choose to submit a written love letter, participate in an interview, or both. This is just an expression of interest—no commitment required.
If it feels like a fit, I’ll provide more information about moving forward.
Depending on your preference, we'll either schedule a 45–60 minute interview via Zoom or phone, or you'll submit your written love letter. For interviews, I'll provide questions in advance as a framework, but we'll stay open to following where your story leads.
You maintain control over your contribution
If your story or letter contributes to the final project, you'll review how it's presented before publication/release and choose how you want to be identified (real name, a pseudonym, or remain completely anonymous).
You’re part of the discovery process
Since I'm staying open to what the stories reveal, your experience will help shape what this project becomes.
Receive the finished work
While I can't offer compensation for your story, anyone who participates will receive access to the completed project when it’s finished, as well as invitations to any launch events or community gatherings (virtual and in person).