The film begins in the register of fantasy—a dreamy aesthetic that might feel out of place in hindsight when looking at the whole. But it worked for me. It worked because what follows just minutes later is, in 2018, its own form of magic: the act of writing actual letters.
I haven’t written one in a decade, maybe more. For many of us, the act is practically extinct—quaint, romantic, slow. In this film, it’s Lara Jean’s treasure box, a sacred stash of unsent feelings and secret wishes. Every letter is addressed but hidden, an analog version of unsent DMs we’ve saved in our drafts. Fragments of ourselves we still cling to, hoping no one ever sees, hoping someone will.
I haven’t read Jenny Han’s novel that the film is based on, but I wonder how much of Lara Jean’s inertia—her stasis—is tied to the loss of her mother. She clings to old films, referencing Sixteen Candles rather than Fight Club (which for many of us was the definitive post–coming-of-age film). She’s a girl out of time, shaped by the past and sealed off from the present.
Letters and Longing
The letters themselves fascinated me. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before is about communication—the things we say and the things we don’t. The unsent letters are an “anti-ansible”: slow, delayed, unreleased truths. They contain a version of Lara Jean who knows what she wants, who might even have the power to get it, but who keeps those desires locked away. The fact that it takes a member of her family—her younger sister—to thrust those letters into the world is telling. It reminds me that as an only child, this would never have happened to me. It’s fitting that the youngest Covey sister is the one who pushes the story forward—successive generations with fewer and fewer inhibitions about saying what they want.
The Power of Movement
Transportation looms large in childhood. How you get to school, who picks you up, who you’re seen with—it’s all social currency. Peter’s car becomes his steed, his signal of cool. When Lara Jean rides with him, it’s not just romantic—it’s symbolic. It’s access, visibility, and a kind of social mobility that every teen knows instinctively. People don’t choose to travel with those they dislike.
One of the film’s most emotionally charged scenes comes when Peter drops Lara Jean off, and Josh—her sister’s ex, her former crush—approaches. Their interaction is brief, awkward, loaded with subtext. A modern Western standoff. Peter stays on his mount, aloof and composed, while Josh—left quite literally taking out the trash—symbolizes what’s already been discarded in Lara Jean’s life. Their words don’t quite say what they mean. That’s teenage masculinity for you.
Family, Grief, and Stability
Janel Parrish’s Margot, the older sister, has only a few scenes, but she matters. She’s the first one out the door—off to college, to a new world—and as Lara Jean tells us, she’s “not one to look back.” Margot’s departure sets the story in motion, leaving Lara Jean to navigate her life without her anchor.
This is a family still shaped by tragedy—the early death of their mother—but not defined by it. They live. They dream. They struggle in ways that are human, not horrific. There is no “disaster child,” no spiraling trauma. This is a strong family, solidly middle-upper class, with a great dad and a beautiful home. That doesn’t diminish their pain. It grounds them. There’s no need to inject artificial suffering.
The father (John Corbett, excellent) has drawn criticism for being “too put together,” too ideal. But why is that bad? Why do some critics seem allergic to goodness? Some parents step up when tragedy strikes. Some people cope quietly and give their kids everything they can. Maybe he is broken in private. But this isn’t his story. And even if it were—can’t we imagine a man who simply rose to the occasion?
Representation Without Trauma
One of the most radical things about To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before is how normal it allows its characters to be. Asian American families in film are so often portrayed through trauma, assimilation angst, or the weight of perfection. But here, they just are. And that’s everything.
Lana Condor, as Lara Jean, is invisible and exotic at the same time. An introvert who dresses with intent. She’s different in every frame, not because the film says so, but because we see it—we know it. That difference doesn’t need to be a crisis to be valid. It just needs to be acknowledged.
There’s a line in your piece that cuts deep: “Our differences are physically obvious, in many communities we are utterly unique, our excellence often expected.” That pressure doesn’t always manifest as breakdown. Sometimes it shows up as silence, retreat, a careful balancing act. That, too, is a story worth telling.
Why It Mattered
When this film dropped, I couldn’t avoid it. My nieces messaged me about it. Friends mentioned it. And what struck me most was the impossibility of this film existing when I was in high school. A movie where the lead is an Asian American girl that everyone is watching? That’s historic.
And people love it. Not Film Twitter. Not critics angling for clicks. Real people. Teenagers. Audiences who feel seen and happy. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. It hits its mark. It makes people feel warm, recognized, safe.
I’ve seen the critiques. The dismissal of the father. The comments on the sanitized conflicts. The jabs at its sweetness. And to that I say: let us live. Not every story has to be about devastation. Not every film has to be soaked in cynicism. Sometimes, we just want to see a girl figure herself out. That’s enough.
I may come back to this movie again. I still have thoughts about Christine (Madeline Arthur), Lara Jean’s best friend, and the world around her that resonated more than I expected. But for now, I’ll just say this:
To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before is a film that will live on—not just in sequels, but in the memory of a generation that finally got to see themselves on screen in a way that felt gentle, strong, and real.
Always and forever, Lara Jean.