Dear you,

I know you’re tired. Not just physically, but in that deep, marrow-dragging way that makes every sunrise feel more like a deadline than a beginning. You wake up with your heart already braced—tight-chested, white-knuckled, breath held like a secret. You’ve convinced yourself this is love. That love is meant to ache like this.

It’s not.

I know the way you walk on eggshells, trying to decode silence and read between the lines of the words he never says. You’ve learned to flinch before the blow, even when it’s not your skin that bruises, but your spirit. You think if you just become smaller, softer, quieter, more agreeable—maybe this time he won’t turn cold. Maybe this time, you’ll be enough.

But here’s what you haven’t learned yet: you were always enough.

You stayed because you saw the potential in him. The flickers of goodness. The rare apologies, the near-tears, the almost-changes. You built a home on almosts. And still, you kept the lights on.

But love is not made of apologies. It is not made of walking on tightropes strung over eggshells. It is not made of enduring pain so someone else doesn’t have to look in the mirror.

I want you to know I’m not mad at you. I used to be. I used to wonder why you didn’t run, why you didn’t scream, why you let him twist your self-worth into something so small you forgot the shape of your own voice. But now I see you were surviving. You were doing the best you could with what you knew.

You loved with the kind of depth that deserved poetry, not punishment.

And one day—you’ll leave. Not with a bang. Not with a dramatic scene. But with the quiet, resolute kind of strength that comes from finally remembering who you are. You’ll pack not just your bags, but the pieces of yourself he told you were too much, too needy, too emotional, too intense. You’ll carry them out like holy relics.

And slowly, piece by piece, you’ll become whole again.

You’ll cry. You’ll rage. You’ll grieve not just the person, but the years, the dreams, the version of you who waited so long for someone to change. But in that grieving, you’ll also rise. Like embers flaring back into flame.

And when someone comes along who listens, who nurtures, who shows up without needing to be begged—you’ll realize how much you’ve healed. Not because they saved you. But because you saved yourself first.

So here’s to you, the girl who stayed too long.

I love you. And I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become.

Always, Me