Hope in the Canyon: A Personal Letter to You
You and I, we’re metaphorically sitting here—perhaps not in the same room, yet still close. I picture a quiet place, maybe a corner of the canyon I often write about. The air still, but not silent. A space where stories echo, and truth has room to breathe.
Let me tell you mine. Not as something to marvel at or pity, but as an offering. A hand held out, palm open, calloused by life and still—still—willing to hold hope.
Torn Between Worlds
I was pulled like a fraying rope between two worlds that didn’t know how to hold me.
My father, quietly relieved I wasn’t too much of a girl.
My mother, disappointed I wasn’t enough of one.
And me? I was neither and both and so much more—a non-binary, neurodivergent, lesbian being with a canyon inside me too wide, too wild, too wondrous to ever fit into their narrow blueprints of belonging.
I sat between all the chairs. No seat had my name on it. No label ever matched who I was. They came from outside, assigned without listening, without asking, without seeing me.
And yet, I carried on. Because something in me always carried hope, even when everything else felt lost or broken.
Hope in the Rubble
I’ve survived 28 traumatic experiences. That’s not a number I throw around lightly.
Sixteen of them I’ve already integrated. They no longer dictate the direction of my days. The others? I’m still meeting them. Gently, steadily.
You’d think after all that, I’d have no energy left for hope. Yet here I am.
I’m watching the life I built—the house, the company, the partner’s car, the inherited stability—crumble around me. Each piece, something I once believed was mine.
Now? Gone. Or going.
And yet—I’m still here. Still rebuilding.
Hope doesn’t arrive with fanfare. It often shows up quietly, disguised as a whisper:
You deserve more than this.
Not more as in success or perfection.
More as in truth. As in freedom.
As in finally living a life shaped by me, not for me.
Avoidance Was the Real Cage
Looking back, my deepest suffering wasn’t from what happened—it was from trying not to feel what did.
I didn’t want to be the outcast, the ostracized one.
I didnt’ want to be the emotionally, physically abused one.
I didn’t want my father dead. Or my mother. Or my brother. Or my partner.
I didn’t want to be the one left behind, holding grief like a ticking clock.
I didn’t want to be the one who failed, who had no degree, who couldn’t keep a company afloat.
Yet trying to reject reality didn’t protect me. It trapped me.
I kept chasing a version of life that never existed, all because I didn’t want to face the rawness of what actually had. The pain. The anger. The shame. The silence. The centuries-old echoes of “that’s not how a girl behaves.”
I swallowed every feeling. Until one day, I couldn’t anymore.
And that moment broke me open—not down—open.
What I’ve Learned About Change (and Maybe You Have, Too)
Change is the only true constant. You know that.
I know that.
Yet it’s astonishing how deeply we all try to resist it.
We cling to the known because it feels safer, even when it hurts. We pretend we’re in control because we’ve been taught we’re supposed to be. We recite sayings, follow customs, obey rules that don’t belong to us—all to stay inside an identity we never even chose.
I’ve spent the last four years dismantling those scripts.
And I discovered that 95% of how I lived wasn’t really me.
Not my beliefs. Not my values. Not my reactions.
They were echoes—generational, societal, ancestral.
Echoes I mistook for my own voice.
Now, I’m listening deeper. Past the noise.
To the part of me that was exiled for 47 years under toxic shame.
That part? It’s finally home. And that gives me more hope than I ever thought possible.
Why I’m Telling You All This
Because you might be somewhere in your own canyon right now.
Maybe you’re between chairs.
Maybe you’re losing something—or someone—you thought was your whole life.
Maybe you're trying not to feel the thing that threatens to undo you.
If that’s true, then here’s what I want you to know:
You’re not broken.
You’re not too late.
You’re not failing because you feel like falling apart.
Hope isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel.
Sometimes, it’s the courage to sit in the dark with yourself.
To not try to fix it right away.
To whisper I’m still here even when you don’t know what comes next.
The Path Isn’t Straight—It’s Layered Like Rock
My healing isn’t a before-and-after story. It’s an ongoing excavation. A canyon carved by time, trauma, tenderness. A place of deep loss and deeper wisdom.
And the truth is: I still have days where I forget how far I’ve come.
Days where I feel the old scripts trying to sneak back in.
Days I want to lie down in the dust and give up.
And I don’t.
Because even in those moments—especially in those moments—hope stirs in me.
It’s quiet. And it’s there.
And so I rise. I rebuild. I keep walking.
I’ll Leave You With This
You don’t have to be ready.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
And you definitely don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
All you need is that one small ember inside you that hasn’t gone out.
Tend to it.
That ember? That’s hope.
And it’s enough to keep going.
Even here. Even now.
Especially now.
With warmth and truth,
Wild Lion*esses Pride is a space for honest reflections and conversations that matter. Reflections on trauma healing, authenticity, and personal growth—grounded in mindfulness and self-compassion. If you connect with biographical essays that explore the complexity of identity and the journey toward wholeness, this space is for you. and would like to show your support, please consider becoming a valued patron for only $5 a month. Or a “Buy me a coffee” tip would be very generous. Thank you! 💚
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