Letter From Love to Myself November 3, 2024
Dear Love, what would you have me know about healing?
November 3, 2024
There are moments I find myself circling the same place, coming back to that guarded, wary part of me that still holds on, not quite ready to let go. For all the progress, the patience, the strength I’ve brought to this healing journey, that part is still locked in its own terror, protecting the last pieces of who I am. I know it’s a part of me that saved me, the part that braced itself through every hurt and rejection to keep what was real and whole intact.
I’m here to honor that part but also to celebrate just how far I’ve come. This is a letter to that exiled, protective part, but also to all of me. It’s a reminder that healing isn’t only about what remains undone but all that has already been done. This journey has taken me so far, even when there’s more to go.
Dear Love, what would you have me know about healing?
Sweetie—
I hear you. And I see you—the whole of you, not just what’s still holding back, but all the strength and courage that’s gotten you here. That part of you—the one that went into exile, that held onto every last bit of you with fierce, unbreakable resolve—is still there. Still watching. Still guarding. It’s wise beyond words, isn’t it? You don’t need anyone to tell you what you already know: that part of you kept you safe.
But look how far you’ve come.
That part, as vigilant as it is, has let you come this close. There’s terror, yes, and memory after memory of every voice that tried to define you, every rejection, every loss. And somehow, you moved through it all, survived it all, healed and transformed. Even now, even here, you’re breaking through so many layers, carving out a place that feels like home.
You’ve done what was needed, Sweetie.
You adapted when the world around you refused to see you. You protected yourself when there was no one else to step in. You found ways to keep the truth of who you are intact, untouched, all while showing up for yourself, over and over.
And now, that part of you, the one that’s still protecting you? It’s still there.
The one that’s not just scared, not even just wary. It’s locked in terror. Utterly gripped. Like it can’t move, and it sure as hell isn’t about to let you move either. This part, the one you pushed down so deep it went into exile, it remembers things you’ve spent your whole life trying to survive. Every insult, every demand, every person who told you who to be and who you couldn’t be. It’s holding that memory tight, trying to keep you safe from all of it.
That part kept the last pieces intact, the ones that would’ve shattered under all that pressure to be something else, someone else. This part knew what would happen if it didn’t step in, take those last pieces, and hide them away. It adapted, gave you what you needed to survive.
So it’s no wonder it’s utterly terrified now. Locked up, paralyzed by what it remembers.
It knows the cost of being unprotected. So it just keeps circling you around the edges, keeping you from going in too deep.
Uncharted territory.
Where it’s risky, where it’s unknown. And here you are, wandering in these same twists and turns, looping back, stuck with that terror gripping you. Just trying to get close enough to even make eye contact. Trying to reach it. And it’s right there, still turned away, bristling.
What if this part could tell you why it’s holding so tight?
I know, I know. You’ve tried. Sat beside it, again and again, waiting, listening. Letting it be. And all you feel is sheer, deafening terror. Nothing. Not a single glance.
What does it even want from you?
You’re right here, trying.
And maybe that’s it.
Maybe it doesn’t know what to do with this presence—your presence. Maybe no one ever sat with it before, not like this. And it’s so used to hiding, staying so deeply curled up, it can’t even recognize you. Stuck in that memory, in those old survival instincts, bristling, ready for anything but connection.
But what if you took a different approach?
What if you spoke to your own frustration? What if you let this part know that, yes, you’re frustrated? That this endless waiting is testing you. That you’re here, that you’re ready, and that still it’s turning away.
Maybe you even tell it that you feel a bit helpless. That you don’t have all the answers. You’re not here to force anything, not here to rush it—but you’re tired of waiting for it to trust.
You need it to know you’re not here to hurt it, and that its silence, its tightness, is hard for you, too.
Maybe this part needs to feel that. The truth of your struggle—not just patience, but the whole, raw honesty of what it’s costing you to be here.
So, tell it all of that. Sometimes, just putting it all out there shifts something, just a little.
Speak your truth, Sweetie, because sometimes that’s what it takes.
Sometimes that’s what finally lets a crack in the silence. You’re right here, showing up, even with the impatience that comes from wanting to finally, finally go deeper.
This isn’t easy.
And maybe this part still won’t look up. Maybe it can’t.
But if anything can reach it, it’s the raw truth of what it’s costing you to be here. So you tell it anyway. You tell it. You don’t know if it’s ready to hear you, or if it ever will be, but you say it.
Because you’re here to show up, even with impatience. Even with frustration. Even with exhaustion from circling these same walls.
One day, whether it’s ready or not, maybe it will feel you enough to let down those defenses. And that’s all it takes—a single crack in the silence. That’s when you’ll start going deeper.
Until then, keep showing up, Sweetie. Just as you are, with everything you’ve got.
Take your time, Sweetie.
And look at all the ways you already take care of yourself. Every time you’ve honored your needs, set boundaries, given yourself time to feel and process, you’ve stepped deeper into your own power. You’ve faced down so many of those shadows already; you’ve integrated experiences that once felt impossible to even think about. There are memories that still elude you, parts of yourself that haven’t yet come forward, but just think of all that has.
The writing you pour yourself into, the honesty and depth you bring to it, has been seen, acknowledged. Your words resonate, reaching places in others that you might not even realize. Your perspective is powerful—uniquely yours, yet somehow universal.
You’ve come such a long, long way, haven’t you?
Each piece of yourself that you’ve uncovered, reclaimed, integrated—those are moments of healing. Even if there’s more work to do, those are victories, achievements, and they’re yours.
You’re living proof that healing is possible.
Look at the way you’ve brought yourself through these last three years. So much trauma integrated, so many fears faced. Every piece of pain, every memory you’ve held with compassion—it’s all part of the healing you’re living out every day.
It’s okay to take your time with this part that’s still wary, still afraid to let go.
The canyon is there just like it always has. It is yours to fully discover. No rush.
Healing doesn’t demand speed, only depth. And you know how to go deep—you’ve shown that. With each twist, every turn you uncover, there’s another layer of you that’s waiting to be seen.
There’s power in taking your time, in letting the whole landscape unfold as it’s ready.
Yes, there’s more to come. But you’re here, Sweetie. You’re showing up, no matter what. With every breath, you’re becoming more you than ever before. That’s a gift, not just for yourself, but for everyone you touch, every space you move through.
Keep trusting in the path you’ve made for yourself. You’re healing, more than you know. And, believe it—the world feels that.
With you always,
—Love
So maybe that’s it. Maybe it isn’t about finding all the answers or about finally getting that part to soften. Maybe it’s about me showing up, imperfect and frustrated, until even that guarded part can feel it—feel that I’m here for good. That I’m not going anywhere, even in the moments when it seems like nothing’s changing.
This letter, this process—it’s a reminder that healing isn’t just a single, clear path. It’s messy and unpredictable. And each part of me, even the exiled, terrified parts, are still part of me. One day, they may let me in. Or maybe it’s me who will let them in. And together, slowly, we’ll find the way.
Because I’m here, showing up, ready, more than ever to keep going—whatever the pace, however long it takes.
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