Over the years, envelopes have arrived in our mailbox with shaky handwriting across the front, the ink sometimes smudged, the stamps often crooked. Most were short notes—“Thank you for your paper” or “I never miss an issue.” But one letter, many years ago, still sits folded in the top drawer of my desk.

The writer was a woman I’d never met. She told me she was widowed, living alone in a small apartment, and that her days had grown quiet to the point of emptiness. She said she didn’t have the strength to go out much anymore, but that when Northwest Prime Time showed up in her building’s lobby, she always made the effort to shuffle down and get a copy.

She wrote, “Your paper makes me feel less alone. It reminds me that people my age still have stories worth telling, and that my life is not over yet.”

I remember reading that line and setting the letter down. At the time, Chris and I were exhausted. We were wondering if we could keep it up—the late nights, the financial stress, the constant scramble. But that letter, arriving when it did, felt like someone had tapped me on the shoulder and said: Keep going. What you’re doing matters.

Publishing is a funny business. You rarely get to see the full impact of your work. Newspapers get recycled, tossed out, left on buses. But sometimes, one lands exactly where it’s needed. That letter reminded me that we weren’t just printing pages—we were delivering connection, reassurance, and maybe even hope.

I knew that when we made the switch from a print publication to online-only, we would be leaving many of our devoted readers behind. They were the ones who did not want to embrace technology. Leaving those readers behind was hard. That era began in April 2022, the month after our very last edition rolled off the presses.

Readers were disappointed in the transition. One loyal reader told us she loved Northwest Prime Time so much that if she won the lottery, she would use her winnings just to keep our print edition alive. She called twice, her sweet voice filled with longing, just to say how much she missed holding the paper in her hands.

That was the common refrain: “I like holding the paper in my hands. Reading it online is not the same.” I felt the same way. For a while, we did our best to keep that tradition alive, creating a downloadable version that looked just like the old print edition. People could print it at home or pick up a copy for free at the library—printed on demand by your friendly local librarian—and for a time, it felt as though the paper still lived on.

But after a few months, we saw that most readers had shifted. They were reading our stories online, not seeking out the “printable” edition. That was the moment we became truly online-only.

Even after the digital switch, the heartfelt notes kept coming. One reader, before she passed away, sent me at least one essay every month. She had once been an accomplished, published author. She wrote that having a place to send her work again meant the world to her. She knew her time on earth was nearing its end, and yet she poured her heart into those submissions. To her, being published again wasn’t just about seeing her words on a screen—it was about being heard, being connected, and leaving something of herself in the world.

All these years later, whenever I question whether this adventure has been worth it, I think of calls and letters. And the answer—at least at this moment—is still yes.