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.

There’s something sacred about this stretch-marked season. Autumn doesn’t apologize for what must fall. It knows the tremble is what makes release possible—and release is what makes room for new life. In a world heavy with grief, rage, and near-constant saturation, this letter meets you where you are: aching, uncertain, brave. It honors the tremble in your nervous system and the courage still breathing in your body.

Some relationships aren’t clean. They’re layered, nuanced, and hard to define. Especially when it comes to fathers. Whether your father was emotionally unavailable, physically absent, or simply unable to meet you with tenderness—this letter is for you. It names the ache. It holds the grief. And it reminds you: your worth was never determined by what he could or could not offer. Read the full letter: To the One Who Has a Complicated Relationship to Their Father