Sometimes the weight gets too heavy, and the silence too loud.
This letter isn’t just words — it’s me reaching toward a version of myself I don’t feel yet, but hope to meet one day.
She’s stronger, softer, and no longer breaking.

This is for her —
and for the me who is trying to get there.

Hey love,

Remember where you are right now.

I remember the ache that sat heavy in your chest every morning.

I remember missing him so much it felt like something inside you broke.

I want you to know — you didn’t do anything wrong. You loved in the only way you knew how: fully, honestly, quietly. That mattered.

And even though it hurt like hell to let go, it was an act of self-love you didn’t fully understand at the time. You were choosing peace, even before it felt peaceful.

I won’t lie to you — it took time. Some nights, the missing came in waves. But day by day, your heart softened. You stopped reaching for his name in your notifications. You stopped needing his voice to feel like you mattered.

You found you again. Not the version of you that waited for messages, but the one who smiles without needing a reason. The one who loves softly, but never forgets her own worth.

I'm proud of you. For every tear, every word you wrote, every day you got out of bed. You made it.

And when you're ready, love will find you again — the kind that stays, and meets you where you are.

But for now, just breathe. You're doing better than you think.

I’m here.

Always, You

If you’re reading this and you’re hurting too — you’re not alone. Some losses don’t come with closure. Some love doesn’t get to grow. But healing isn’t about forgetting — it’s about finding peace in remembering.
And maybe one day, we’ll look back at this moment and whisper to ourselves: “Thank you for holding on.” 

I wasn’t sure if I should share this. It’s personal. Raw. Still a little tender.

But maybe someone out there needs to hear it — to know they’re not alone in the quiet ache of a connection that didn’t become what they hoped.

Dear Self,
  
I know how you feel, and I am sorry for causing you this pain.
  
We’ve been very cautious these past years, guarding ourselves, healing, slowly learning how to trust again. But this time… we let someone in. We gave him a piece of us — a piece we’ve never shared with anyone else. It was real. And it mattered.
  
But now here we are… heartbroken by how things unfolded.
  
The connection was there. We felt it. We weren’t imagining it. But somewhere along the way, it started to fade — slowly, quietly. And we were left trying to understand a silence that never gave us answers.
  
We don’t know exactly what changed. Maybe he pulled away. Maybe we leaned in too much. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to grow.
  
We can’t blame him, not fully. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with the kind of love we were ready to give. Maybe we misunderstood his warmth and gave meaning to gestures that meant something different to him than they did to us.
  
And that’s okay.
  
What we gave came from a pure place. It wasn’t foolish — it was brave. Loving, even in uncertainty, is never something to regret.
  
So now, dear self, I know you're hurting. I know you’re reliving moments, re-reading messages, and wondering what if.
  
But I promise you: this pain won’t last forever. One day, this won’t feel like the end of the world. It will feel like a chapter that helped you grow — and soften — without breaking you.
  
You are still whole. You are still worthy. And you will love again.
  
With patience, Me
  

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It’s messy, slow, and often silent. But writing this helped me start to move through it — to remind myself that loving fully, even when things don’t last, is still something to be proud of.

If this letter speaks to something in you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Or just know you’re not alone — even if you don’t say a word.

Dear 45-Year-Old Me,

I hope you are okay.

I hope the mornings feel lighter now, not because life got easier, but because you have learned how to carry things better. I wonder what your days look like. I wonder if you have finally found a rhythm that does not hurt.

Did we make it to where we always wanted to be?

I hope you have a job you like — or at least one that gives you peace. Something steady. Something that lets you breathe. You always said you didn’t need grand things — just something stable, something that lets you sleep at night without counting worries.

I hope your room is quiet but not empty. That there are books, or music, or even just the sound of the fan as you rest. That your life is not loud, but it is full in its own quiet way.

And love…

Maybe someone came. Maybe no one did.

But I hope you stopped measuring your worth by it.

I hope you learned that love is not something to chase, but something that finds you when you are already whole. If they have not arrived yet, that is okay. Maybe you became everything you needed all on your own.

I hope you are still kind — not just to others, but to yourself. I hope you do not replay old mistakes too often. I hope you have forgiven the younger version of us for not knowing better. She was trying. We both know that.

And if things still do not look like the life we dreamed of, I hope they at least feel like something you have grown into.

You are not late. You are just moving at your own pace.

With all my hope,

Your younger self

---

Sometimes, life moves so fast that we forget to pause and check in with ourselves. So today, I decided to write a letter—to my future self. A letter that my 45-year-old me will one day read, filled with hopes, reminders, and maybe a little bit of advice. It’s like planting a time capsule of thoughts, dreams, and feelings that I want to remember and reflect on years from now. Writing this felt both strange and comforting, like having a conversation across time. I can’t wait to see how things have changed when I finally open it.

I am 40 now.

Honestly, it still feels weird to say. I thought things would look different by now. I thought I’d be more… settled. But here I am, still figuring things out.

I left my job. I tried to make it work, stayed, hoped something better would come. It did not. I am jobless. And yeah, it is frustrating sometimes — to try and still feel like I am back at square one.

Love? Still nothing.

Still no one new.

Still mending a heart that has been broken for a while now. Some days it is okay. Other days, not so much. But I have learned to sit with it — not fight it as much. Some pain just stays a little longer.

But not everything feels heavy.

This year, I had my first international trip.

And I got to be with my sister again. Her family. My nephew.

That part felt good. Like home. Like I could breathe.

It reminded me that love shows up in different ways. And maybe that’s enough for now.

At 40, I have not ticked all the boxes.

No job. No partner.

But I am here. I am trying.

I have failed, yes — but I have also grown. Quietly. Slowly.

I have learned to let go of things, people, places that were not for me.

To be honest, I am still learning how to be okay with where I am.

But I am proud I made it this far.

So if I ever read this again someday —

I hope I smile a little.

And I hope I have found more peace than I have now.

— Me, 40

Dear Me,

I want to take this moment to honor the journey you’ve been on — the one that spans eleven years filled with love, dreams, hope, and, yes, pain. You invested so much time and emotion into something you believed in, something you hoped would last a lifetime. And even when things started to change, when the distance grew between you two, you held on. You stayed hopeful, waiting for clarity and honesty that never came.

It hurt deeply to realize that the future you imagined wasn’t going to happen the way you thought it would. To learn, unexpectedly and silently, that he got married without telling you—it felt like the ground beneath you gave way. His silence was louder than any words he could have said. I know that pain feels raw and heavy, and it’s okay to feel betrayed, confused, and heartbroken.

But through all of this, I want you to recognize your incredible strength. You faced a truth that many would avoid. You found the courage to end a relationship that no longer honored your worth or your heart. That was not an easy decision. Ending such a long chapter wasn’t giving up—it was an act of bravery and self-respect.

Remember, healing is not a straight path. There will be days when the pain feels overwhelming, when the memories flood in, and when you question if you’ll ever fully move on. Those days are part of the process. But with each sunrise, you are moving forward, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Every tear you shed, every moment of reflection, and every small step you take toward self-care is progress.

You are deserving of kindness — especially from yourself. Speak gently to your heart, nurture your soul, and allow yourself the grace to heal at your own pace. You are not defined by this loss, but by your resilience, your capacity to love, and your willingness to grow.

You are whole, even when you feel broken. You are enough, even when doubt creeps in. And this journey, painful as it has been, is shaping you into a stronger, wiser, and more compassionate version of yourself.

Keep trusting your intuition. Keep believing in the love you deserve — starting with the love and respect you give to yourself. The future is still unwritten, and there are brighter days ahead. When you’re ready, open your heart again—not just to someone else, but to the beautiful possibility of loving yourself fully.

I am proud of you, and I will always be here for you.

With all my love and compassion,
Me