To the Version of Me Who Didn’t Think She Was Enough,

I see you—
hunched shoulders, heavy eyes,
carrying the weight of a thousand lies
spoken in silence,
echoing louder in the quiet of your mind.

You believed the whisper that said,
“You’re too broken to be loved.”
You tried to earn your worth
in applause, in perfection,
in being everything for everyone
and nothing for yourself.

But let me tell you what no one told you then—
You were already enough.
Before the striving, before the masks,
before the tears stained your pillow at night.

You didn’t have to shrink to be accepted.
You didn’t have to hide your heart to be safe.
You didn’t have to bleed yourself dry
just to be seen.

God saw you.
Every jagged edge, every cracked smile—
and He called you beloved.
Not when you got it all together,
but when you were at your lowest.
Especially then.

You didn’t know it,
but grace was holding you.
Mercy followed your every step.
And love—real love—never left your side.

So, to the girl who thought she was too much and not enough all at once,
I forgive you for believing the lie.
I honor you for surviving.
And I love you—for everything you were,
and everything you still are becoming.

You are enough.
You always were.

Love,
The Me Who Knows Now

Dear Bedroom,

You’re just a room, really. Four walls, a bed, a closet full of clothes. But to me, you are sacred ground. A place where heaven reached into earth and pulled me back from the edge. You don’t look like a sanctuary, but that’s exactly what you became.

I remember the way the light hit the walls that day. It was October 12, 2018. The air felt heavy, like even the atmosphere understood the battle raging inside me. I had reached the end—of my strength, my hope, my desire to keep trying. I had decided it was over.

No one knew what I was planning. I wore the mask well. I smiled when I had to. I said, “I’m fine” more times than I could count. But deep inside, I was unraveling. And that night, I truly believed the world would be better without me in it.

I sat on the edge of my bed, drowning in silence. The weight of my pain pressed against my chest like a thousand bricks. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted peace—or what I thought peace would be. But just as I was about to let go, something stopped me.

A stillness came over the room. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It wasn’t a voice from the clouds. It was a whisper—gentle, but undeniable.

“Stay.”

One word. One breath of God that broke through the noise in my mind.

And then, again, a little louder:

“I still have plans for you.”

I froze. My heart stilled for a moment. I had spent so long convinced I was forgotten by God—convinced He had nothing more to say to me. But in that moment, in the very place where I was ready to end it all, He showed up. Not with judgment. Not with anger. Just presence. Just love.

You, my bedroom, became an altar. A quiet, sacred space where the God of the universe reached into my mess and whispered life back into my bones. I didn’t get off that bed healed or whole—but I got off that bed still breathing. Still here. Still willing to try.

Since that night, you’ve seen it all. Tear-stained pillows. Journals filled with raw prayers and half-scribbled Bible verses. Worship songs played softly in the dark when I couldn’t sleep. You’ve held the weight of countless moments—relapses and recoveries, hope and heartbreak, growth and grief. And through it all, God kept meeting me here.

I’ve come to realize that sometimes the most holy places aren’t cathedrals or sanctuaries—they’re bedrooms. They’re quiet spaces where pain meets presence, where despair collides with grace. Places like you.

I’m still here. I’m still walking. Still healing. Still believing in the God who told me to stay.

Thank you for being the place where everything could’ve ended…
but instead, everything began again.

With all my heart,
Anoukha
(A life held together by grace)