Write a love letter to yourself
I see you struggling on. Naming yourself, then seeking further validation. You needed that. That’s okay.
I love you even when you don’t know who you are or where you’re going. You’ll find your way. Perhaps you’re making it too.
I love you for trying — for self advocating — for continuing on. I love you when you’re tired and unsure of yourself — and wonder why you went to grad school.
I love you even when you are uncertain — I’m proud of you for taking care of yourself, even when it’s hard.
You are finding your words again — and even in the silences, your words matter — you do too.
Perhaps all those years of PBS helped after all — I tell you what Mister Rogers did — how you are valuable just by being you.
I know you wonder how people like you make it in the world — on their own — all alone. I wish I had a crystal ball to show you or a pair of spectacles from which to view post-grad life. But I don’t.
Even still, I love you for considering the possibility of hope — and will be — of passing through the fog when it will not dissipate.
May you learn to trust yourself — that the words you struggle to find to describe your feelings are enough, even when they feel inadequate.
Maybe your listener will surprise you.
You are not bad. You are not wrong. May you see what you have to give — because of not in spite of — yourself.
I hope you no longer have to hide. That you’ll find spaces where you feel safe. But when you need that cloak of protection, that’s not your fault. You are not wrong, but perhaps the situation is.
I love how you keep going. Routines are not magic, but perhaps they’ll guide you through the fog. Your ship is sturdy enough, even when the waves and winds grow strong.
I know you’re scared, but even still you’ve learned to ask for help. You’re finding the words to guide you through.
I love you for who you’ve been — who you are and who you are becoming.
May you sit with the girl in that room and let her know that she is heard. That her voice matters.
Because the door is open and the yelling has ceased, even though it echoes through memory.
I’m proud of you for taking her to safety.
And for enduring the storm together.