A love letter to myself

Dear Me,

I’m sorry this took so long.

For too long, I’ve poured love into places that didn’t hold me, chased validation from voices that couldn’t see me, and stretched myself thin trying to be everything — anything — for everyone else. I’ve stood in front of mirrors, searching for softness, for grace, for something to like… and sometimes found nothing but tired eyes and an ache I couldn’t name.

I’m sorry I lost you for a bit.

But I see you now. I feel you. And I’m writing to tell you — I love you.

I love the way you keep going, even on the days you don’t know how. I love the way your heart still hopes after disappointment, still believes after heartbreak, still softens after hurt. You are not broken. You are becoming.

I love your messy laugh, your too-loud dreams, the way you care too deeply and give even when your hands are empty. I love that you feel everything all at once. That you’re learning to rest. That you’re learning to say no. That you’re showing up for yourself now — not because you’re perfect, but because you’re worth it.

You are allowed to outgrow the versions of you that were built in survival. You are allowed to take up space, to speak your truth, to not always have it all together. You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress. And you are allowed to be loved fiercely, cherished and appreciated.

You.

So here’s to the mornings when you get up even when it’s hard and you keep hitting the snooze. The nights when you curl into your own arms and whisper, “I’m okay.” The days when you choose to believe — even just a little — that healing is possible. That joy will return. That there is life after the storm.

I’m proud of you.

I love you.

Always,

Me