This week asks a lot of us. Not because of the holiday itself, but because of what rises up inside us when the noise quiets. Gratitude isn’t about pretending — it’s about staying human, staying honest, and staying connected to what’s real.

There comes a moment when you realize you’ve spent years offering depth to people who could not meet you in return. Not because you were too much — but because your truth awakened what they’ve avoided in themselves. This letter is a reclaiming of your right to be met, without shrinking, without apology, and without negotiating with your own longing.

You are not too much—you’re just not fully met. Yet.
This letter is for the ones who keep showing up with tenderness and presence, even when their care goes unreciprocated. It’s about the quiet strength of staying open without self-abandoning, and the courage it takes to meet others exactly where they are—without bypassing your own truth.

There’s a quiet arrogance that arises when we assume something isn’t ours to care about simply because it doesn’t touch our front door. But there’s also a soul-deep exhaustion when we try to hold it all. Somewhere in between lives the practice of becoming a vessel—not a container. This letter invites us to walk the razor’s edge of humanity, presence, and responsibility—without collapsing, and without turning away.

A visceral letter to the one who’s been circling around what they already know deep down. You’re not confused—you’re just scared. But your truth is still here. And it’s ready when you are.

The world feels sharp right now — too much and not enough all at once. Our chests ache with it. Our breath catches on the edge of it. And still, we keep trying to love our lives inside it. This letter is for the ones whose hearts haven’t hardened, who are still daring to stay alive in their skin while everything around them shakes loose.