Deanna Hews - 2025
They Mailed Me a Letter (And no, It Wasn't a Love Note)
Someone sent me a letter. Not a thank-you card. Not a kind little note from a customer's kid with backwards letters and too many hearts. Nope. This was anonymous, old-school, cut-me-down kind of letter.
Which, honestly? Is kind of iconic. My daughter actually suggested I frame it like it's my first dollar bill. " Look at me, I got my first piece of hate mail! I'm a real business now!" If that's not generational trauma healing through sarcasm, I don't know what is.
And sure, I could laugh-and I did. But the truth is, this letter? It reminded me exactly why I keep showing up.
Because this store isn't just about clothing. It's about community. And whether the person who wrote that letter realizes it or not, that's what they were writing about. They just don't have the guts to say it out loud.
" I've had people tell me who I am before I've even introduced myself. And yet-I'm still here. Giving. Building. Believing in something better."
So let’s be clear: this wasn’t constructive feedback. It was a vent session in bad handwriting. They called me self-centered. Said I make everything about myself. That my store is a joke. That I talk too much about my struggles. That I’m not “doing anything special.”
And listen—I’m not mad that someone feels that way. Opinions exist. What does bug me is that they didn’t sign their name. No return address. Nothing. If you’re that passionate about how I’m running my life, at least put your name on it. Like, come on—if you're crying out for help, say it with your chest. I would help you, by the way. You clearly need something. What can I do for you?
Because here's what I actually do:
I give.
I donate to the Chilliwack Community Cupboard. I donate to the Chilliwack Free Store regularly. I’ve helped families after community fires. I’ve had strangers message me asking if I can help a sibling, an aunt, someone going through something—and I have. Without hesitation. Because this community matters to me. People matter to me.
I’ve had scared young parents walk in—parents who didn’t expect to be parents yet—and they don’t know what to do. They’re panicked, broke, overwhelmed. And I talk with them. I offer what I can. I try to be the voice I wish someone had been for me.
And guess what else? I love when kids destroy my store. Truly. I set things low on purpose—on shelves where they can reach and touch and explore—because this is a kids’ store. What did you expect? A museum?
No, this is a place where your toddler can have a meltdown, your baby can chew on a teether (the one you bring in-the ones I sell are in sealed packages so that can't happen lol), and your four-year-old can knock over an entire bin of books while you finally breathe and shop without feeling judged. It’s basically a mini daycare, but with better lighting and reward points.You don’t need to apologize if your child makes a mess. I expect the mess. Honestly, it means you’re comfortable. And that’s the whole point.
Now here’s the kicker:
This kind of criticism isn’t new to me.
I’ve been harassed—literally—by people who shared a wall with me for nearly a year. The police confirmed it. Crown Counsel confirmed it. I’ve had people spread rumors that I’ve stolen donations. I’ve heard wild stories about myself that even I didn’t know. Some days, I find out what I’m allegedly doing through the grapevine, and it’s almost impressive how creative people can get.
It used to get to me. But not anymore.
Because I’ve realized something: people will always talk.And the louder you try to do something good, the more they’ll try to drown it out.
They said I talk too much about myself. That other people have it worse. And they’re right—people do have it worse. But me talking about my struggles isn’t me saying I have it the worst. It’s me being honest in a world that pressures parents, especially moms, to keep quiet and “be strong.” I share what I’ve been through so that maybe one other person feels less alone. That’s it.
They said my store is a joke.
And you know what? It is. It’s hilarious. There are googly eyes everywhere, kids leaving with sticker-covered faces, and a store cat who does absolutely nothing to earn his keep. It’s organized chaos. But if that’s your definition of a joke, I hope you never need to laugh.
They said I’m not doing anything special.
But I am. And not because I say so—because the community shows me every day that I am. Through the parents who cry happy tears at the counter. Through the kids who treat this place like a second home. Through the notes, the DMs, the quiet “thank yous” from people who didn’t know where else to go.
And you know what really got me?
It wasn’t just what they said—it was the fact that they clearly read what I wrote. Like, actually read one of my blogs. Start to finish. And somehow, they took my honesty—my genuine, vulnerable, from-the-heart words—and twisted every single one of them into something I never meant.
That takes effort. And not just emotional effort—like, they literally sat down, wrote it all out, folded it neatly, bought a stamp, and physically mailed it. In 2025.
And all I could think was... this person must be hurting.
Because nobody goes to that much trouble to tear someone else down unless something inside them is already torn. So no, I’m not angry. I’m not even sad. I just genuinely, truly hope—for their sake—that they find whatever peace or healing they clearly need. That someday, they can meet other people’s humanity with kindness, instead of hiding behind a sheet of paper and a missing return address.
This blog isn’t about dragging whoever wrote that letter. It’s not even really about them. It’s about showing the kind of community we're building-one rooted in support, not judgment. A space where families are welcome, mess and all where no one has to pretent to have it all together.
I’m not here trying to build a mall brand or be anyone’s Pinterest fantasy. I’m trying to build something real. I want to grow this into a space that’s more than a store. A place where parents can find help. A space where teens feel safe. A hub for families—messy, loud, beautiful families who need community more than they need perfect shelves or quiet corners.
That’s the dream.
And to the person who wrote the letter: I see you. Not as an enemy—but as someone who clearly needs to be seen. You wrote to hurt, but what came through loudest was loneliness. If you ever want to talk, for real, and sign your name this time—I’ll be here. Because even after all that, I still believe in community.
And hey—thanks for the content. Framing your letter and hanging it by the door might just be my next grand opening moment.
I’ll be here. Lights on, googly eyes stocked, heart wide open.
—Deanna
