Dear Me,
I see you.
Not just the version you show to the world, but the real you, the girl behind the timed smiles and polite responses. The girl who learned how to shrink herself to survive, and knows how to keep secrets even from her own heart. I see you at 2 AM, lying awake in the dark, holding your breath like the silence will save you, not crying because itās beyond falling tears.
I see how you made a home out of your hurt, how you stitched wounds into walls and called it strength. But mostly, I see your fight.
I know how hard you tried to hold your heart together with shaking hands and still show up like everything was okay. And I want to say you didnāt fail.
You didnāt know the death knocking at your door for your most favourite person wouldn't be the end. You didnāt know that a shattered heart would one day become sacred ground. That the same God you barely spoke to was near the entire time, collecting every tear, thought, fear and listening to every breathless prayer, even the ones you couldnāt form into words.
You thought survival meant silence. But you were never made to live muted. Your voice matters. Your story matters. And your softness? Thatās your superpower.
I want you to know that God didnāt waste any of it: the heartbreak, the shame, the detours, or the days you felt forgotten. He used it all. Every broken moment was compost for something beautiful. And slowly, gently, Heās been rebuilding you not into who you used to be, but into someone softer, sacred, fuller to rebuild other women's faith, purpose and confidence.
You're not behind.
You're not too late.
You're not too broken.
Youāre in a new era of priesthood.
So if I could wrap you up in the biggest hug and whisper just one thing, it would be this:
You made it. And Iām proud of you.
Love,
The woman Iām becoming.