i’m glad you were born

I’ve spent time building this little home for my words to tell a few stories, get through a few thoughts, and form small bridges of connection. This cozy corner of mine is titled Letters to You– I’ve always found letters to be both profoundly personal and still, somehow, a bit mysterious. They can be thoughtful and wandering, casual or serious; a hidden place to put down words, and a proclamation worthy of sharing.

I’ve tried to write straight from my heart to your yours: to friends, family, colleagues, people I’ve yet to meet, those I love and those I loved.

Today, I’m taking this space for myself.


To You,

Hello.

I see you.

I see you last year, on the bottom of your shower, crying so hard the room is spinning. I see you with your world ripped out from under you. I see you confused and scared and lost in a heartbreak you never could have imagined.

You’re tired. Exhausted. I see you packing up a house you once loved. I see you putting away dreams. I see you saying goodbye. I see you walking away. I see you still loving him, fiercely, beyond comprehension, and still choosing a new life. I’m sorry that was so hard. Thank you for being brave.

I see you alone in your kitchen, drowning your heartbreak in wine. I see you hiding. Burying yourself in chocolate, in pretzels, in pasta, in secrets. I see you trying to make everything else hurt worse than your heart. You try, but it doesn’t make you ugly. You aren’t forgettable. You are good.

I’m sorry you feel bad when you need to buy new jeans. He wouldn’t have loved you more if you fit in the smaller ones anyway. It’s okay to let them go. 

I see you in the panic attacks. I see you in the insomnia. I see you in your moodiness, your tears, your anxiety, your loneliness. I see you in your quietness and snippiness and busyness. I see you needing nap after nap after nap. Your body has been through a lot, for a very long time. Be gentle.

I see you in your anger. I’m sorry for what he left behind. I’m sorry for the reminder of the times he hurt your heart and took advantage of you. It’s okay to be mad.

I’m sorry you aren’t who you thought you’d be. I’m sorry you’re no longer a wife and the promise of motherhood is no longer nearby. I’m sorry you are bitter and hurt and jealous of families and babies and couples in love. I hope your heart softens again. 

I’m sorry you trusted a man to see you and know you and respect you and love you and raise you up. I’m sorry you thought he would lead you but he hurt you. I’m sorry you planned for a life and hoped for a dream that didn’t come true. 

I’m sorry you invested so much of yourself in the wrong person. You had a lot to give. You still do.

I’m sorry you felt alone. I’m sorry for the nights without a friend, without the words to ask for help. I’m sorry for the times you didn’t even know you needed it. 

You will see that even here, even now, God is faithful. He is trustworthy. He has made a promise to you, and you will be blessed.

In this next year, and the years to come, know that you deserve respect. You deserve love. You deserve to take up space.

And guess what? There’ll be days you stop wondering if you’re too fat to be loved. 

There’ll be days where you dance so hard you can’t walk, and you weren’t held or kissed or noticed by a man all night long. That will be perfectly, wonderfully, beautifully okay. 

You will learn that you are enough.

You will know that your voice is worthy of being heard. Your face is worthy of being seen.

You have permission to dream new dreams.

You are a complex, beautiful, broken, healing, open, emotional, fun, intelligent, kind, hard-working, dog-loving, size 16-jean wearing mess. You are human. 

I love you. I respect you. I hear you. I see you.

You are good. Better than good. 

The best is yet to come.

Happy Birthday.

Love, 

Me

a letter to you on your birthday

Today, in a bizarre toast to you on your day, I made the decision to go through my box of old love letters. Back when we started dating I went to TJ Maxx and bought a box with purple lilacs and French script printed on the cover. What a perfectly romantic place to store the letters you’d been sending me from school! How heartbroken our little teenage hearts were when you left! We knew it was the beginning of a long road paved by the military; lined with long-distance, hard-work, and loneliness. 

Your letters were sweet and short and written in between desperately busy days. You wrote to me about how beautiful I was. How sweet and kind. How much you looked forward to seeing me again. How much you looked forward to the next part, the next month, year, whatever, because it all meant we were closer to seeing each other again and always inches closer to the ultimate: life together after school. You wanted to see me wake up in the morning and hold me at night. You wanted to tell me you loved me and laugh with me. You wanted to be friends. You wanted to be family. 

What do I do with those letters now? Do I throw them away and pretend they never existed? Do I reduce them to some manipulative scheme and dismiss them? Do I let them sit in my heart and feel the love I felt when I was 18, 19, 20, etc., etc, etc. 

I’d like to think it was real. If you were manipulating me I don’t think you knew it. I’m not sure you loved me as deeply as you claimed or as intimately as I needed, but I think somewhere and somehow you loved me. In some universe, when you addressed cards as my love, I really was your love. When you wrote me that I was beautiful and would be a perfect mother and wife, that you would take care of us and protect us, you didn’t know yet I would need protecting from you. You didn’t know that you would tell me someday you wouldn’t want kids because you didn’t want them to grow up to be like me. That one day you could watch me tip the man in the parking lot and look at me, seriously, and say “I fucking hate you” and pretend you never said anything at all. I don’t think you knew on our first Valentine’s Day when you called me your heart and soul that on our last Valentine’s Day you would get me a blank card on the way home from work and never write in it. 

Buried even deeper in the box is a list of things you loved about me where you told me I was smart. I don’t think you knew we would get in a door-slamming, sleep-on-the-couch fight because you thought men were smarter than women, and especially that you were smarter than me. That you could tease me and call me dumb and useless and I would laugh it off. 

How do I reconcile these people that I knew? There was the sweet, sensitive boy who wrote these letters. He surprised me with a weekend to the beach one of our first married summers. We took a ferry to an island and spent the days eating seafood, sleeping on the sand, drinking and smoking cigars and singing 90s songs on the porch. We were at home together. You used to open your arms up to me and ask for a hug while you were on the couch- I loved that you did that. I would be busy, cleaning or folding clothes, and you knew that sometimes an interruption was best. Your arms were strong and warm.

How was that the same man who could leave me alone in a house night after night for hours at a time? Who could disappear to a bar with friends without caring to tell me when he’d come home? Who wouldn’t hug me or touch me or speak to me unless I begged him? Who could scream til he was blue because I took too long curling my hair? 

I used to think the kind version of you was the real one, and the dark version was the one that needed excusing, and there were plenty of excuses. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe that version was real enough, but those roots can only grow so deep. At the core and buried underneath is your darkness and sadness and hatred. I think it might be rotting you away, because it certainly tried to rot me.

I’ll put it so you can understand: I think your kindness is real in the way paint is layered on the canvas. You’ll paint it on thick enough until even you believe it and everyone else sees something beautiful. In the end, though, the canvas is weak and thin and when the paint starts to chip off there’ll be nothing beneath but sadness. 

Happy birthday.

Love,

Me