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.

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.

You don’t have to let go all at once. Even when the world tells you to leap, to break open, to “trust the process”—you get to take your time. But eventually, the part of you that’s been gripping will tire. And when it does, I hope you remember this: not all falling is breaking. Some of it is becoming. This letter is for the one who’s still holding on.

A midsummer note for anyone living in the questions. There’s a certain kind of ache that doesn’t mean something’s wrong—it means something is waking up.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a restlessness that doesn’t want to be solved. It wants to be listened to. There’s something stirring under the surface of my life, something tender and wild, something that feels more like ripeness than confusion.

In this midsummer letter, I’m writing from the edge—where grief meets joy, where the ache opens into aliveness, and where the questions are louder than the answers. It’s not a polished reflection. It’s a real one.

If you’ve been feeling a shift you can’t quite name…If you’re finding yourself more tender than usual…If you’re living between clarity and becoming…This letter is for you.