Sweet girl,
You weren’t crazy. You weren’t wrong. You weren’t too much.
You were feeling deeply in a world that taught you to be numb. You were asking questions that no one had the courage to answer. You were carrying pain that wasn’t yours to hold.
I wish I could wrap my arms around you—pull you out of that storm, whisper all the things you needed to hear but never did.
Like this:
Your sadness isn’t a failure.
Your fire isn’t a flaw.
You’re not meant to fit into boxes built for someone else’s comfort.
There will come a time when your voice shakes less. When you’ll speak without apologizing. When you’ll stop chasing love that asks you to shrink.
There will be people who see you—the whole of you—and don’t run. And yes, some will leave. Let them. You don’t have to beg to be chosen anymore.
I know you think you have to be strong all the time. You don’t.
You get to rest.
You get to cry.
You get to break without being broken.
I wish someone had told you that being sensitive wasn’t a weakness—that your emotions weren’t enemies, but messengers. That survival isn’t just about holding on—it’s about letting go, too.
But here’s what matters most:
You make it.
Despite everything, you make it.
And one day, you’ll write it all down—not to relive the pain, but to reclaim it.
Because your story isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.
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