The Quiet Between Hearbeats

Dear Me, the One Who Waits,

I see you. Sitting in the in-between. Not where you were, not yet where you long to be. Caught in the aching middle, where hope and grief live side by side and every day feels like too much and not enough.

You didn’t choose this. You didn’t ask to become familiar with this kind of waiting—the kind that bleeds, the kind that reminds you over and over that you are not in control. And yet, here you are. Still showing up. Still hoping. Still breathing, even when it hurts.

I know you’re tired of being patient. Tired of aching. Tired of the silence when you’re begging things to speak in signs of life, of readiness, of possibility. Tired of feeling like you’re stuck while the world moves on.

But I want you to know: you are doing more than enough. You are holding space for dreams and for pain at the same time, and that is a holy kind of strength. You are not broken, even if you feel like a puzzle with missing pieces. You are healing, even if it’s slow and messy and invisible.

It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to grieve the version of life you thought you’d be living by now. And it’s okay to still want—to still try. Wanting doesn’t make you ungrateful. Hoping doesn’t make you naive. It makes you brave.

So today, rest if you can. Cry if you must. Dream if you dare. And when tomorrow comes, you’ll meet it exactly as you are—waiting, hoping. 

With all my love,

Me