Madison Butcko

Happy Birthday! Hope you have the best day!

As I sent the text, the words appeared and disappeared on my screen. Efficient. Immediate. And yet, unsatisfying. The message felt impersonal, almost perfunctory, stripped of the depth I wanted it to carry. I sat in the emptiness, realizing that what was missing wasn’t just what I wanted to say, but how I wanted to say it.

So, I start again — but this time, with a sheet of paper.

I fold the sheet carefully in half, trimming the edges to just the right size. I pull out my pens and collection of markers, thinking about color schemes and designs. The paper’s blankness holds potential — ready to be filled with color, words, emotion. When I choose to give it, this simple piece of paper becomes a card.

A card is intentional in a way that a text message cannot be. A card demands time — time to reflect, time to create and time to connect. Each stroke of my pen holds something I can’t digitize: the small moments I treasure, the memories we share, the parts of them that have changed me. There’s no autocorrect, no predictive text, no backspace — just the flow of my thoughts, unfiltered and personal. 

But the joy of a card is more than its words. A text is all about the message; a card is about the medium. With a blank canvas in front of me, I think of them — their favorite lilac flowers, the deep blues of the Washington coast they love so much, the hues of the evergreen trees they run beneath. These thoughts guide my choices as I sketch delicate flowers in the corners or fold the paper into intricate shapes. I craft envelopes from colorful sheets, decorating them with washi tape featuring little animals and mushrooms. Engaged with color, care and memories, I pour my time and effort into what becomes an act of creation. I let my hands do what my phone never could: craft something tangible, something real.

This act of creation is more than a task; it’s my process of connection. By the time I slide the finished card into its envelope, I imagine the moment they’ll open it — the weight of the paper in their hands, the quiet joy of discovering something made just for them. As I picture this, I realize the act of making the card has already done the same for me. It has grounded me, brought me closer to them and reminded me why I care.

Looking back, it’s clear why the text felt inadequate. A text is fleeting; a card is lasting. A text is efficient; a card is intentional. What brings me joy in card writing isn’t the ease of communication but its depth — the pause it demands, the deliberate thoughtfulness of creating something meaningful for someone else. It’s a reminder that connection takes effort, and that effort is what makes it valuable. Cards let me feel and say what a text never could. And perhaps in making them I’ve learned not only how to show love but how to feel it, too. 

So perhaps it’s written in the cards: when it’s your birthday, expect one.