Dear Me,

I see you—sitting in the quiet aftermath of a life you didn’t plan, heart cracked wide open, memories flooding the spaces where your dreams used to be. You were never not enough. You were so much—so full of love, hope, tenderness, and vision that the world didn’t always know what to do with you.

After your first divorce, you felt like you’d let everyone down—your family, your friends, your child, yourself. The story you’d written in your head was filled with pancakes on Sunday, slow dancing in the kitchen, candlelit baths, and spontaneous adventures. But the pages turned too fast, the ink blurred, and the best friend you married and thoughts of forever slowly disappeared into the shadows of disappointment. You left that chapter unfinished and blamed yourself for walking away too soon. Maybe you did. Or maybe you were just brave enough to acknowledge that love, no matter how deep, can’t survive on wishes and memories.

And then came the second chance—a love that dazzled you with its devotion. He adored you. He made you feel chosen. Another son, another beginning, and you told yourself this time it would work. But slowly, the walls closed in. You couldn’t breathe. You weren’t craving someone else—you were craving yourself. Your freedom. Your thoughts. Your wild spirit that always longed to gallop, like a wild horse, through the open fields of possibility. You weren’t selfish. You were seeking air, peace, and truth.

It wasn’t that you thought you weren’t enough.

It was that somewhere along the way, you feared you were too much—too dreamy, too idealistic, too hungry for a love that felt like home and adventure at once. You wanted what your parents gave you: consistency with laughter, boundaries with warmth. You wanted romance with room to exhale. A soft place to land that didn’t also become a cage.

Was it too much to want all of that? Maybe. But that doesn’t make you too much.

You wanted the fairytale, not for the glitter, but for the grounding. You wanted your children to grow up in the kind of home you were lucky to have. Yet, you wanted the white picket fence, the golden retriever, and images from your brain that don’t always equate to love and happiness.

And when things fell apart—twice—you didn’t mourn the loss of a man as much as you mourned the certainty you wanted to give your sons. You blamed yourself. You gained weight. You buried your regrets. You stopped saying some things out loud because others didn’t understand and they hurt too much to name.

But here you are.

Still standing.

Still giving.

Still loving.

Still becoming.

You didn’t fail your children. You showed them resilience. You showed them the cost of truth, the courage of reinvention, and the power of choosing peace. You never stopped being their mother. In fact, you became an even braver one.

And you?

You are enough.

You were always enough.

And you’re not too much—you’re just enough to fill the life that was meant to be yours.

Keep going. You are not broken. You are becoming.

With all the love you never stopped deserving,

Me