If I were to write you a love letter, it would say that things are working.
That the plans you had years ago, based on the vision that drove everything forward, are coming to fruition.
Precisely because you kept going.
Because you pivoted when necessary.
You stopped when necessary.
You saddled up when necessary.
But no matter what, you kept holding onto the faith.
The faith in that thing which made no sense.
That faith in that thing that was no more than a feeling.
A tiny anchor in a sea of so many other things wanting to draw your attention away.
Which is not to say things feel seamless, perfect, or smooth. Wobbles. Doubts. Speed bumps. Roadblocks. They’re all part of it.
If I were to write you a love letter, I’d say to remember that things never unfold the way we think they will, the way we expect them to, in a perfect-world scenario.
Expectations are nothing more than imagination exercises. (And what could change if you started treating them as such?)
I’d probably also tell you that it’s okay to make plans that never come true. It’s okay to map everything out only to decide on a different destination, a different journey.
It’s okay to choose a map that is different from the one you originally made.
Some people can stick with one map.
Can follow the plan.
Live the script.
Plan. Execute. Rinse. Repeat.
If I were writing a love letter, I’d tell you that it’s okay that you aren’t like them. That there’s no right//wrong here.
That their way is beautiful and right as is yours.
If I were writing a love letter, I’d ask you what might shift if you decided that nothing about the beautiful way YOU did things was wrong?
If the differences between you and her and him and them just became points of wonder and celebration?
If I were writing a love letter, I’d also remind you that this wonder and celebration can become a radical act.
Because the world will keep pointing fingers and wanting us to pick sides and decide who’s right. Pick The One for everyone else to spend their lives trying to measure up to.
The work is actually in remembering to remember.
The work is in the parts that feel sloggy.
Where you accidentally get pulled away from yourself. Over and over.
The work is going even deeper. Especially when you think you should be done with this part. When you’re ready to move on. Haven’t I slowed down enough?
You’re allowed to trust what you can’t touch.
You’re allowed to give yourself grace when you forget.
You’re allowed to tend your spirit above all else.
These are the seeds from which everything grows.
And it’s already so amazing.
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