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.

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.

We are living in a time where political violence is sharpening and public grief is swelling—but the deeper crisis might be this: we don’t know how to regulate anymore. We don’t know how to soften into connection across difference. We’ve mistaken rage for power and isolation for protection. And somewhere along the way, we stopped offering one another the sacred possibility of co-regulation—of feeling and healing in proximity. This week reminded me: no matter how loud the headlines get, healing begins when we can breathe in rhythm again—when we dare to hold someone we disagree with, not to convert them, but to care for the humanity inside them. That’s the breath we’ve been holding. That’s the one we need to release.