A Letter To Myself

Some days I forget that healing doesn’t have to look holy to be holy.

This letter is for the days when you and I are tempted to skip the storm and go straight to the light.For when “love and light” feels like a lie.For the moments when your only truth is the pulse of your own breath —as you stay present with the pain.

Maybe you need this today.I know I did.

A Letter to Myself:

Dear me,

Stop trying to heal so gracefully. This isn’t a stage play. There is no quiet applause for how you softly wept or how quickly you forgave the ones who shattered you. Healing is not a candlelit bath. It is the moment you nearly scream from remembering — and then, you stay. You breathe through the wreckage without folding yourself back into silence just to make others comfortable. Let it be messy. Let it be loud and graceless and trembling. Let it undo the neat version of you that survived by pretending she was fine. Don’t skip over the rage or tuck away the bitterness because someone told you it would lower your vibration. That’s not spirituality —that’s suppression in a prettier dress. You are allowed to ache. Allowed to spit out the gratitude someone shoved in your mouth before you were ready to speak. Allowed to name what hurt you before you bless it. Real healing doesn’t come with gold stickers. It comes with cracked knuckles from clawing your way out of stories that were never yours to carry. Let your grief take up space. Let your anger name the boundary .Let your voice shake as it tells the truth anyway. This is holy work. Not clean, not polished — but sacred in its rawness. You don’t have to transcend your humanity to be divine. You just have to stay with yourself when it’s hardest to do so. That’s how you know you’re healing: you stop abandoning yourself to earn a version of peace that was never peace at all.

Stay. Feel. Speak. And when you forget — come back. I love you for every unbeautiful moment you thought no one would. – Me