To the Ones With Stretch-Marked Hearts
Dear friend,
There’s a unique kind of ache moving through the world right now.
Not sharp. Not sudden. But slow. Lingering. Heavy.
It’s the ache of saturation.
Of too much input and not enough exhale.
Of headlines we can’t keep up with, realities that wreck and rearrange us, and emotions we haven’t had time to name.
Of nervous systems whispering, “please, just one moment of quiet.”
And still—somehow—you show up.
You go to the grocery store. You pay the rent/mortgage.
You carry the weight of a world you didn’t break.
You take care of your kids, pets, parents, your people.
You answer texts even when you have nothing left to say.
You stand in the stretch marks of your own heart and you choose to keep living.
That is courage.
Don’t let the world tell you otherwise.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear.
It’s what roots down in the middle of it.
It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it’s just the choice to rise again, even if you’re doing it with shaking hands and tear-rimmed eyes.
And if you’re trembling?
Let yourself tremble out in the open.
It’s not weakness. It’s the very way autumn makes its entrance—bold, unapologetic, sacred.
Every leaf knows: the tremble comes before the fall.
The release is not a failure.
Autumn is not ashamed of letting go.
It knows what season comes next.
Let the world see your fatigue.
Let them see your battle-worn softness.
This is how we recognize each other.
If you’re looking for courage, look for the ones who are trembling and telling the truth about it.
Just this week, I’ve seen courage in the parking lot.
In client zoom sessions. In the checkout line. At the gym.
On walks with friends. Alone in the dark of night too.
Look for it everywhere, love.
And you will see it.
I promise you will find it.
In the sigh you didn’t know you were allowed to release.
In the way you hold someone’s gaze just a moment longer,
so they remember they’re not alone.
This global community is not lacking courage.
You are not lacking courage.
You’re building it, moment by moment.
With every breath you deepen.
With every truth you speak.
With every tremble you stop hiding.
There is no shame in being stretched thin.
You’re not broken. You’re being remade.
Marked by the ache. But also by your longing.
By your reach for more.
By your wild, brave devotion to love, to seek justice and aliveness—even now.
This is how we come back to ourselves—not all at once, but together. This is how we begin again—not when it’s easy, but when it’s necessary.
Stretch-marked hearts, you’re the map.
You’re the pulse. You’re the living reminder that courage doesn’t come after fear is gone—it comes because we choose to keep breathing inside it.
And that? That is real holiness.
From my stretch-marked heart to yours,
Practice Postscript
where the letter stops being read & starts being lived.
When the world feels too much, return to the body that has carried you through it.
Place one hand on your chest and one on your belly.
Take a moment. Put both hands over your chest.
Close your eyes. Breathe into the space where your ribs ache from holding it all in.
Now whisper this: “I am allowed to ache. I am allowed to rest. And still—I am courage in motion.”
