Dear The Lingering Fear That Three Simple Words Will Never Be Mine,

You have always tried to define love for me. You told me love is something I’ve been denied, incomplete, something I’ve longed for but never truly received. You whisper that without hearing those three words—I love you—from a man who chooses me, my life will close like an unfinished story, a book with missing pages.

And I’ll admit, you’ve gotten to me. I am battling my mortality at 38 years young. And in the face of death, I am supposed to find peace. I have prepared myself for the idea that cancer may claim my body, that my time may be shorter than I ever imagined. But my deepest fear isn’t cancer killing me—it’s dying without ever having heard those three paltry words from a man who is not my father.

Is love real unless someone speaks it? If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If love is only ever felt in silences and gestures, and never spoken, did it ever exist?

I have loved before, in the quiet, secret way that women love when they fear their love is too much. The first time, I swallowed it whole, afraid that if I spoke it, I would lose him entirely. The second time, I gave it words, typed them out in an email, sent them into the void. He never responded. And now, I say it wholeheartedly to the man I share my life with, and still, there is only silence where those words should be.

At night, you curl up beside me, filling the emptiness left by unspoken words. Either I’m not enough, or altogether too much, you whisper. Leaving this world without hearing those words means I was never profoundly, unquestionably loved, you breathe. That I will be one of the few who slip through life without that moment, that whisper, that confirmation. You taunt me with the idea that I will never know what it feels like to be loved in the way the world deems most important.

But I am learning something about you, Fear.

You shrink in the face of love.

Not just the kind I have been waiting for, but the kind I have always had. The kind I have given, over and over again, without needing it to be mirrored back. The kind I have received in ways that were quieter than words—the hand that lingers on my shoulder, the friend who answers the phone at midnight, the dog that follows me from room to room, needing no language to tell me I matter.

You tell me I have been deprived of love. But maybe I have been mistaking the sound of it.

Because love is more than eros, the kind I have spent my life waiting for—the kind that burns bright, passionate, fleeting. Love is also phileo, the steady, unwavering presence of those who choose me, not out of obligation, but out of devotion. The grandmother who carries my stories as if they are her own, the people who stay through every season, the love that is chosen, not just felt. And above all, love is agape—the deepest, purest love, the love that gives without asking, the love that does not waver whether it is spoken or not. The love that outlasts life itself.

And I see now, agape is the highest form of love, because it is love that exists without condition. It is love that does not demand to be named. It is love that has surrounded me all along. And if I can accept that, then I can choose to live not in fear or longing but in abundance.

Because victory over you, my dear fear, is not waiting for love—it is being love. It is pouring into myself as if I am the greatest romance ever to exist. It is saying I love you even if I do not hear it back. It is no longer shrinking myself to be more palatable, no longer fearing that love given freely is love wasted. It is loving fully and without restraint, not to receive, but simply to be.

So regardless if I ever hear these words spoken by a man who is not my father, I will vanquish you with love.

Because I am already loved.

Because I am love.

With Love Always,

Rachel

(Prowriting Aid Style Score 100%)

My Dearest Cancer,

When I saw the prompt for this competition—Write a love letter to something, not someone—I knew immediately what I would choose. And I knew it would be controversial. A love letter to cancer? To the harbinger of suffering, the thief of time, the unwelcome guest in so many bodies? It’s a touchy subject, raw and untouchable for many, but for me, meeting you has been a love story—as odd as that may sound.

Not the kind that sweeps you off your feet, but the kind that guts you open, that forces you to see yourself in ways you never dared. You arrived without invitation, burrowing into the most private parts of me—my asshole, of all places—demanding attention, forcing my hand. If nothing else, you’ve got a sense of humor. At first, I braced for war. That’s what everyone told me to do—fight it, beat it, don’t let it win. But I have never been one to follow convention, or accept an easy narrative.

And I found something unexpected.

You became my permission slip. To grieve unapologetically. To cry without restraint, to let others witness my sorrow instead of tucking it away in the polite folds of I’m fine. You made my grief legible in a way my mother’s suicide and my father’s dementia never did. When I lost them, I learned how to disappear into my pain, how to mask my devastation in ways that made others comfortable. But you? You made it impossible to hide. You turned my suffering inside out, made it visible. And people—finally—saw me. They didn’t look away. They sat with me, showed up, and held space for my sorrow in ways I never allowed them to before.

You made my life urgent in a way that only cancer can, forcing me to take inventory of every choice, breath, and heartbeat. What is worth my time? Who do I love? How do I want to spend this one wild, unpredictable life?

I never wanted to beat you, not in the way others do. How could I fight something that has given me so much? Instead, I want to sit with and learn from you. You are the manifestation of all I have endured—trauma that settled into my bones, choices that I made with my body before I understood what they meant. You are not some foreign invader; you are a part of me, shaped by my past, by everything that has ever happened to me. And if I am to heal, I must first love you. Accept you.

You’ve made me take chances. Cracked me open a second time, made me braver, softer, more compassionate. You have shown me the art of forgiveness—not just for others, but for myself. You have sharpened my hunger for life, not in the vague, theoretical sense, but in the way my hands now linger on warm skin, the way I savor the taste of food, the way my laughter rises unrestrained, the way I say I love you first, without fear of how it lands.

You have given me the courage to write again. To pull my stories from the marrow of my experience and lay them bare. Without you, I might never have let my voice slip into the world in the way it was meant to. And maybe that is what you were always meant to do—not to silence me, but to make me louder.

And when you leave, as I hope you will, I will carry the lessons you’ve etched into me. I will cradle the urgency, clarity, and appreciation you’ve awakened. I’ll remember how you taught me to live as if every breath is borrowed, every sunrise a rare gift, every touch a tether to the divine.

I know someday we will have to part. You will fade, and I will go on. But there’s a small part of me that wants to hold onto the urgency you have given, the sharpened awareness of how precious, fleeting—miraculous my existence is.

And while I may have embraced you, I will not become your sycophant. I do not want to love you so much that I let you consume me. I will not bow to you or glorify you beyond your purpose. You have been my teacher, my reckoning, my reminder. But I won’t let you write the ending.

After all, all is fair in love and war—and I have chosen love.

You haven’t merely helped me answer the question of whether I want to live. You have shown me what it means to truly live. And when I think of you in the quiet of my solitude, I won’t curse your name but instead whisper a soft thank you.

And for that, for all of it, I love you.

With gratitude,
Rachel

(PRO WRITING AID STYLE SCORE 91%)

Dear Death;
My life has rapidly changed since suffering a fall in my classroom back in the Spring of 2022. I was preparing for our school’s Open House, placing student artwork on my classroom walls when I fell backward and hit my head with such force that I broke two molars. I ended up in the emergency room with a diagnosis of a concussion and also a back injury. The exam was not very thorough because two days later, cracks in my teeth finally gave way while I was eating; I ended up spitting out broken pieces of two teeth.
For me, that accident truly changed my life forever. Eventually, I received a diagnosis of Post-concussional Syndrome. I often felt loopy, my back continued to cause pain, I frequently suffered headaches, I was often quite irritable, and I was always tired. In time, I ended up on disability, although I recently retired from 20 years of teaching.
Fast forward to the Spring of 2024. After several falls and other minor symptoms, I received a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. I was worried about that diagnosis, but then I knew I could live a long time with Parkinson’s symptoms, which seemed scary. I was prepared to fight, but then as the summer continued and my symptoms got worse, my original diagnosis changed to Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a disease I hadn’t ever heard of. Unlike Parkinson’s Disease, PSP is a rare, incurable neurodegenerative disorder that, in time, will damage brain cells, causing issues with movement, balance, vision, speech and swallowing. A PSP diagnosis is terminal. Shortly after receiving this news, the idea of death seemed too great, too painful, too real. Surprisingly, the thought of death crept into my life. However, early on, I decided I would not allow the complications from this debilitating disease to control my life. So, death, I have decided not to welcome you into my life.
I have gone from a non-disabled person to someone who now relies heavily on my husband to take care of everything–but we’ve been together since we were 14 years old. For 50 years, he’s been by my side. We both know the reality of my prognosis-but we both need to live with hope and lots of love–because really, what else is there?
This past year has been an exciting one! One year ago, we bought a cabin at Lake Almanor. This purchase followed two previous home losses. You see, in 2018, we lost a home we owned for 30 years in the Camp Fire in Paradise, California. Tragically, 3 years later, our beloved lake house burned down in the Dixie Fire. The purchase of our new-to-us 75-year-old cabin has been such a wonderful project to work on—a labor of love. My husband, who has his contractor’s license, completely tore the cabin down to the studs and has completely rebuilt every inch. The only outside help was the hiring of an electrician and a plumber.
This project has allowed us to focus on our future, which includes a gorgeous view of Lake Almanor from our deck. We spent the last year buying furniture and decorations to fill our new home away from home. All our furnishings are in a storage shed we purchased to store the collection of special items. I bought two sleeper sofas, an antique Hoosier, and a vintage table and chair set. I purchased an antique entry table, two side tables, and a beautiful electric fireplace. My collection also included several paintings and antique knick-knacks. We are ready to move our belongings in–I’d probably say that I was ready the moment Randy finished hammering the last nail! There are still a few last-minute tasks from Randy’s punch list to complete. Those will not take long.
There is one purchase that I’m eagerly waiting to take up to the lake: a newly reupholstered chair that at one time belonged to my momma, who died of metastatic breast cancer in 1997 at the young age of 59. When I sit in the chair, I feel my momma’s essence–it was her absolute favorite chair to sit and ponder life. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do–I’m going to ponder my life and its greatness. I will contemplate how crazy and sad it can be, but I will certainly spend more time thinking about how wonderful it has been. This message is for Death; you are not welcome in my home, not now, not soon. I have way too much to live for. In my life, it’s Lake Almanor or BUST!!!

Style score: 100

Dearest Self:

Life has been challenging these past few years, which is undoubtedly an understatement. Despite these challenges, you should be so grateful for your ability to persevere through hardship–something you learned as a child. You should be proud of your wherewithal as you show your resilience through insurmountable pain. Without those character traits, you may not be here today to share your story of what it looks like to survive AGAINST ALL ODDS.  

When the Camp Fire tore through the community of Paradise, California, on November 8, 2018, taking anything and everything in its path, including your home of 30 years, you thought that it would be the worst, most painful experience in your life. As it turned out, you were wrong. 

During the summer of 2021, your family suffered a second catastrophic fire—the Dixie Fire, which consumed your little lake house, as you call it, at Lake Almanor, California. Although you called it your lake house, your cabin was not near the lake, nor was it a traditional house. It was a refurbished mobile home constructed in the 1970s but remodeled into a cute cabin style–all the walls had tongue and groove wood throughout, with cabin-like decor in every room. It was a place where your youngest son and husband retreated after your family home burned to the ground.

Little did you know that one year later, in March of 2022, you would sustain a fall in your classroom that would drastically change your life. Eventually, your beloved teaching job ended because of the injury you suffered in your classroom.
 
Within two years of the Dixie Fire, life continued to be challenging. For some time, you dealt with a nagging cough and the feeling of breathlessness. Do you remember driving down the freeway one day after work, talking with your dearest friend from Paradise? As you spoke, she reminded you that you should see a doctor about your cough. If you were being honest about life, you had put off going to your doctor because of the ongoing chaos and, frankly, depression that you felt. During the summer of 2022, after going through a variety of tests, you were diagnosed with a progressive, irreversible, and terminal disease: Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. 

Do you remember sitting on your patio after your doctor gave you the news? You sat there in shock. You were stunned–at that point, you expressed utter sadness that you would likely die of the same disease your father had died of. At that point in your life, you would never have guessed that a nagging cough would lead you down this path. 

That next year of life, 2023, you had to get used to attending many specialist visits–from appointments with two different pulmonologists, a cardiologist, a neurologist and a Physical Therapist. What seems just insanely unfair and tragic at the same time is that one year after receiving your IPF diagnosis, in October of 2024,  you would receive news of a second terminal illness–Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, which is a rare neurodegenerative brain disease. 

Most people you tell your story to often look at you with sorrow and amazement. They usually say something to the effect that you are a survivor. You’ve frequently shared that you are living because there is no other choice. You have the support of a fantastic husband of 38 years, two adult sons, your sisters, and several lifelong friends. Plus, you have two faithful Akita dogs to live for. You have lost your autonomy these past few years and often depend on your hubby to help you with daily tasks. You walk with a walker now–your brain is a bit slower, as are the words you speak, and your gait is a little bit wonky. Your stamina is much less these days, and you have often complained that you sleep more than you’d like to admit. 

You recently shared that although you’ve lost material possessions and (some of) your independence over the past 6 years, you’ve gained a new perspective-enjoy each day as you live it and love each person like it’s the last day you’ll spend with them. None of us are guaranteed a tomorrow. YOU are an example of a true fighter. As you tell anyone who wants to listen to your story, you will not go down without a fight. You will never allow fires, a severe back injury, or even two terminal illnesses to define who you are. You will continue to fight the battle until there is no fight left in you. You should be PROUD of who you have become. YOU  are a survivor, AGAINST ALL ODDS.

A letter in memory of my dad…The Things I Carry

Several years ago, our youngest son, Aaron was required to write an essay for his English class entitled, “The Things I Carry”…I remember being intrigued by the topic of his essay. This particular essay focused on the physical objects he carried in his backpack, his wallet, and then also the objects that cluttered his truck. He was also required to write about the collection of memories that were important to him. Years later, I find myself reflecting on my dad’s life and the “things” I carry, along with the memories that I have about my life with my father.

On April 10, 2010, I said my final goodbyes to my dad. Later that week, I stood up and shared what I believed to be important memories of my dad. I spoke about his love of sailing at the Afterbay at Lake Oroville, California, his love of sailing on his favorite Northern California lake–Lake Almanor, and his love of sailing the ocean blue…so true. I spoke about his love of taking his girls up to Lake Almanor–fishing, sailing, staying at our PG & E cabin, and just the joy of being a family. I also shared that I will also carry in my memories because of my dad:
~the fact he loved each family member unconditionally
~his love of blue Ford Mustangs…both convertibles and hardtops
~his love of backyard birds
~his ability to accept you for who you are
~the connection I feel to his birthplace, Orland, California, and our family that still lives there
~his love of a-monds, not All-minds
~his love of black licorice and jujubes
~the joy he received from the births of each of his 13 grandchildren
~his determination to conserve energy; always reminding us to turn off all the lights in the room when leaving
~his dedication to his job with Pacific Gas and Electric
~his love of his Caspar Beach vacation spot in Mendocino
~his desire to be a successful a-mond farmer
~his willingness to help the family out when in need
~the dedication he had to help his Uncle Bill out while his uncle fought terminal cancer
~his love of breakfast–early morning trips to Jack’s Restaurant or the Cozy Diner..sometimes accompanied by a family member or not
~his love of books and reading newspapers….many newspapers.
~my dad’s ability to be calm and cool under pressure
~his collection of boxes of things…carrying them from home to home…and now how his girls do the same thing.

I now think about the things I carry in memory of my dad…what I do carry may not be objects that my dad possessed, but what I carry is the essence of what a good person he was…there may have been challenges in our lifetime–issues that never got resolved, words that were never spoken, feelings that were never expressed, but for today, I am choosing to honor the man who I remember at age 11–the man who cuddled me and protected me from the flying monkeys and the Wicked Witch of the West. The things I carry about my father’s memory, I’ve discovered are not just the big moments in life, but those moments that if not paying attention, may just be a whisper away…I miss you Dad–every day.

It was a Thursday morning, just like any other. I got up, grabbed a cup of coffee, took it back to my bedroom, turned on the news and scrolled through my phone like any other morning. At 6:00 am I hopped in the shower, hoping I’d get out the door a bit earlier so I could get to the our teacher’s union meeting which was scheduled at school before class started. I walked down the hall, grabbed my lunch, toasted a bagel and off I went. Little did I know, that morning, November 8th, 2018 would be the last time I’d be surrounded by your loving walls.

You welcomed us about 18 years ago, after moving from a smaller home in town. I remember thinking you were so much more luxurious home—you had central heat and air instead of a wall heater. You had a large, open kitchen instead of a small galley kitchen. You even had two separate rooms—one for family to gather—the other for the adults to mingle. Well, the adult mingling didn’t happen as often, but the family gatherings were abundant. Our little family had about 6480 dinners often while the television was showing some funny sitcom–a handful of other celebrations happened in the dining room and outside on the patio. Birthdays were shared—by my estimates you hosted about 72 of them. You even hosted a Thanksgiving celebration where my entire family came—long before things got complicated. You even hosted two high school graduation parties. Special events which make me smile.

I loved your beautiful gas fireplace insert where I spent many nights healing from my broken ankle last December. I’ll miss the days of sitting on the sofa, feeling the warmth of your beautiful fire.

My favorite memories come from our beautiful Christmas celebrations. The fireplace mantle which our stockings hung, the tree which stood tall on display in the front window—it all looked so spectacularly gorgeous. I always loved how your bright lights which hung from the roof’s edge, would shine during the Christmas holiday. You knew just how to bring Christmas cheer to our family. For that I thank you.

I’m also thankful for all the baths in the tub…a nightly ritual. Many books were read, while I soaked my often weary bones. Many tears were shed while soaking. Many worries were released. Those nights will be missed.

Our family will forever be thankful for keeping us safe each night. Many happy nights, some sad nights, but most importantly many restful nights were spent in your bedrooms. Those nights will no longer happen. Sadness. Tears. Restlessness. Anxiousness. All used to be comforted by you. No longer.

I will forever be grateful to you sweet home for housing our family BBQs on your patio. And I’m especially thankful how your fences took such care of our beloved Akitas—Kuma, Bella, Hopey and Odin. They played, they healed, they ate and they thrived in your yard. Thank you.

Our kitty River also loved stalking the critters outside your yard at night. A time or two she’d climb up your old oak trees, getting stuck then needing rescue. All of our furbabies were thankful for the space to roam and explore.

I’m heartbroken that I won’t be able to sit and drink coffee, or wine from our patio with my friend any longer. The flowers, birdhouses and hummingbird feeders will forever be missed.

Your occasional snowy winters, beautiful spring mornings, chilly fall evenings will just be distant memories. Your gorgeous camellias are no longer—the days of cutting one of your red or pink flowers which had always reminded me of my mom will no longer be. For that I’m sad.

What I’m especially thankful for is how comforting you were to me during my grieving days and subsequent years following the deaths of both my parents. You helped me heal—your four walls brought extreme comfort to me. You listened to my tears—my fears—my aching heart.

I bid you farewell my sweet home. The beautiful sunsets and sunrises viewed from your windows, will no longer be. My heart is broken, but I’ll remember our time together forever. Love to you always, me💕