How to write a legacy letter: the complete step-by-step guide

You've been meaning to write a legacy letter. Maybe for months. Maybe for years. You know it matters, you know your family would want it, and you still haven't done it. The tab stays open, the notebook stays blank, and the idea floats around your head without ever landing on paper.

This is the guide that gets you from "I should write a legacy letter" to "I wrote one." Not theory. Not inspiration. A step-by-step process you can follow, with real prompts, practical decisions, and honest advice about what works and what doesn't.

If you're wondering what a legacy letter even is and why it matters more than a will, start there. If you already know you want to write one, keep reading. We're going to build this thing from scratch.

How to write a legacy letter: before you write a word

Most people fail at legacy letters because they sit down, open a blank document, and try to write something beautiful about the meaning of life. That's the worst possible starting point. You wouldn't build a house by picking out curtains. You need groundwork first.

Decide who you're writing to. This matters more than you think. A letter to your spouse is a completely different document than a letter to your children, which is different from a letter to a friend. You might end up writing multiple letters, and that's fine. But start with one person. Put their face in your mind. Everything you write should sound like you're talking to them.

Pick your moment. Block out 20 to 30 minutes when you won't be interrupted. Not an entire Saturday. Not a "writing retreat." Just a short window where you can think without someone asking what's for dinner. You're not going to finish in one sitting, and you shouldn't try to.

Gather your memory triggers. Before you write anything, spend ten minutes looking through old photos, scrolling your camera roll, or flipping through a box of keepsakes. You're not organizing. You're priming the pump. Memories lead to stories, and stories are what legacy letters are made of.

One more thing: turn off your inner editor. You'll clean it up later. Right now the only job is to get words on a page.

Step 1: dump everything on the page

This is the step most guides skip, and it's the most important one. Before you try to write a letter, just write. No structure. No greeting. No attempt at eloquence. Just answers to questions.

Grab a pen or open a document and respond to as many of these as feel true:

What's a memory of this person that makes you smile every time?
What do you know now that you wish you'd known at 25?
What's the best decision you ever made, and what made it scary at the time?
What mistake taught you the most?
Is there something you've never said to this person but should have?
What do you want them to remember about you?
What do you want them to know about themselves?
What family story needs to be preserved because nobody else knows it?
If they're going through the worst day of their life, what would you want to say to them?

Don't answer all of them. Don't write paragraphs. Just jot down whatever comes. A phrase. A half-sentence. A name and a date. You're building raw material, not drafting prose.

When I say dump, I mean it. Write "I don't know how to say this but..." and then say it. Write the thing that makes you tear up. Write the thing that makes you laugh. Write the thing you've never told anyone. This document is for your eyes only, for now. Nobody's grading it.

You should aim for at least a full page of notes. If you get more, even better. This is your quarry, and the letter is the sculpture you'll carve from it.

Step 2: find your three to five anchors

Look at what you wrote in step one. Some of it will feel like filler. Some of it will feel like it matters. You'll know the difference because the stuff that matters will make you feel something when you reread it.

Circle or highlight three to five pieces that feel like anchors. These are the bones of your letter. They usually fall into a few categories:

A specific memory that captures something about your relationship
A lesson you learned the hard way and want to pass along
Something unsaid — an apology, a thank you, an explanation
A hope for their future or your family's future
A truth about them they might not see in themselves

You don't need all five categories. You need three to five things that feel real. That's enough for a letter someone will keep for the rest of their life.

If you're writing to your daughter and aren't sure what to anchor on, the guide to writing a legacy letter to your daughter goes deep on that specific relationship.

Step 3: write the letter (the actual draft)

Now you write. Take your anchors and turn them into a letter. Here's a loose structure that works:

Open with something specific. Not "Dear Son, I'm writing this letter because I love you." That's true, but it doesn't grab anyone. Instead: a memory, a scene, a moment. "I keep thinking about the night you called me from college at 2 a.m. because you'd failed your first exam and you didn't know who else to call." That's an opening. That tells the reader: this letter is about us, not about some abstract idea of family.

Move through your anchors one at a time. Give each one its own space. A paragraph, or two, or three. Let each one breathe. You don't need transitions between them. It's a letter, not an essay. You can simply start a new thought.

Close with what matters most. The last few sentences are the ones they'll remember. Don't waste them on a summary. Say the thing you'd say if you knew it was the last thing they'd ever hear from you. Usually that's pretty simple. Usually it's some version of: I love you, I'm proud of you, you're going to be okay.

A few rules for the draft:

Write the way you talk. If you've never used the word "cherish" in conversation, don't use it here. Your family needs to hear your voice, not a greeting card's. Read each sentence out loud. If it sounds like you, keep it. If it sounds like a stranger, rewrite it.

Be specific, not general. "I'm proud of you" is nice. "I'm proud of the way you handled things when you and Jake split up — you didn't badmouth him, you didn't fall apart, you just quietly figured out who you were on your own" is a letter someone will cry over. The specific version proves you were paying attention.

Don't dodge the hard stuff. If there's an apology in your anchors, write it without qualifiers. Not "I'm sorry if I hurt you." Just: "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should have been, and I know it." If there's something that needs explaining, explain it straight. The parts that feel risky to write are the parts that make a legacy letter meaningful.

Keep it between one and four pages. Shorter than one page and you probably haven't gone deep enough. Longer than four and you're probably repeating yourself or trying to cover too much territory. Most good legacy letters land around two to three pages.

Step 4: let it sit, then come back

This is the step that separates a decent letter from a great one. After you finish your draft, put it away. Close the document. Put the notebook in a drawer. Walk away for at least two days.

When you come back, read it fresh. You'll notice three things:

Parts that still hit. Those stay. Don't touch them.
Parts that feel vague or generic. Tighten them up. Add a detail. Replace "you always made me proud" with the specific moment.
Parts that are missing. Sometimes the thing you most need to say is the thing you avoided on the first pass. If it surfaces during the reread, write it now.

Read the whole thing out loud. Your ear will catch what your eye misses — sentences that run too long, phrases that sound stiff, places where you accidentally slipped into "writing voice" instead of your real voice.

You might do this cycle once. You might do it three times over a few weeks. Both are fine. There's no deadline on a legacy letter. The only deadline that matters is the one none of us can predict, which is exactly why you should finish sooner rather than later.

Step 5: make the format decisions

People overthink this part, so let me make it simple.

Handwritten or typed? Handwrite it if your handwriting is legible. There's something about seeing a loved one's handwriting that a printed page can't replicate. If your handwriting is a mess or you have a lot to say, type it and print it. Both are fine. Both are meaningful. Don't let this decision stop you from finishing.

One letter or multiple? If you have multiple people you want to write to, write separate letters. A letter addressed to "my family" is nobody's letter. A letter addressed to your brother that mentions the summer you two spent rebuilding that truck in the garage? That's his letter. It has his name on it. He'll keep it forever.

For advice on tailoring letters to different people in your life, that guide covers how to adjust your tone and content for each relationship.

Where to store it? This is the part people forget, and it's the part that actually determines whether your letter does its job. A letter nobody can find is a letter that doesn't exist. You have a few options:

A sealed envelope in your important documents, labeled clearly
With your attorney or executor, with instructions about when to deliver it
A digital copy backed up somewhere secure, with someone who knows where it is
A dedicated service that handles delivery after you're gone

The worst option is hiding it somewhere clever. Don't make your family play detective during the worst week of their lives.

The questions everyone asks

When is the right time to write a legacy letter? Now. You can always revise it later. The version of you sitting here today has things to say that the version of you five years from now might forget. You don't need to be sick. You don't need to be old. You just need to care about someone enough to leave them your words.

What if I get too emotional to write? Good. That means you're writing about something real. Take a break. Come back tomorrow. The emotional weight is part of the process, not a sign that something's wrong. If it's overwhelming, know that you're not alone — the emotional side of writing final letters is something almost everyone struggles with.

What if I'm not a good writer? You don't need to be. Your family isn't looking for literature. They're looking for you. The misspelled words, the run-on sentences, the paragraph where you couldn't figure out how to end it so you just stopped — all of that is more human and more valuable than anything a professional could ghost-write for you.

Should I tell my family I'm writing this? That's up to you. Some people want it to be a surprise. Others find it meaningful to tell their family, "I wrote you a letter. You'll get it when the time is right." Either approach works. The only wrong move is writing it and telling nobody where it is.

Can I update it later? Yes. Please do. Relationships change. You change. New things happen that deserve to be in the letter. Some people rewrite theirs every few years. Others add a postscript. Think of it as a living document that you close the cover on when you're ready, not a one-time assignment.

Start right now

Here's your assignment. Not for someday. For today.

Open a blank document or grab a piece of paper. Write the name of the person you want to write to at the top. Set a timer for ten minutes. Answer this one question:

What's one thing I want this person to know that I've never quite said the right way?

Write whatever comes out. Don't fix it. Don't judge it. Just get it down.

That's your first anchor. Tomorrow, add another one. The day after, another. Within a week, you'll have the raw material for a letter that could change someone's life on the day they need it most.

You already have everything you need: your memories, your voice, and someone you love enough to write to. The only thing left is to start.

When I Die Files gives you a secure, private space to write the letters that matter most — and make sure they reach the right people at the right time.