Dear Me-Who-Didn’t-Feel-Enough,
I wish I could tell you I’ve figured it all out—that somewhere along the way, the fear faded, the doubts disappeared, and I finally felt… enough.
Like I was doing it right. Like I belonged.
But I haven’t. Not really.
There are still days I look in the mirror and only see the flaws.
Still days when my best doesn’t feel even close to good enough.
When the house is a disaster.
When the kids eat nothing but boxed mac and cheese (again).
When I try to be the perfect mom, wife, daughter, human—and somehow manage to drop all the balls at once.
When the bills outnumber the dollars, the inbox stays full, and I seriously consider running away to live one a desert island in Tahiti with no Wi-Fi.
There are still moments when the silence after an interview feels like confirmation.
Still nights when I lie awake, picking apart every word I said that day.
Still that quiet voice that whispers, Maybe they’re just being nice. Maybe they don’t really mean it.
You thought you weren’t enough back then.
And honestly? Some days, I still do.
But I’m learning to believe that showing up is enough.
That boxed mac and cheese isn’t a moral failure.
That the mess doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong.
That love isn’t measured in perfectly folded laundry or homemade meals.
That trying—even tired and unsure and overwhelmed—still matters.
I’m starting to believe that I don’t have to earn rest.
That I don’t have to fix everything to be worthy of grace.
That maybe I’ve always been enough—flaws, doubts, and all.
So I keep going.
I love. I doubt. I cry. I try. I laugh. I dream. I show up anyway.
Maybe that’s what enough looks like.
Not perfect. Not polished. Not sure.
Just… here.
Still learning. Still trying. Still writing. Still breathing.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s more than enough.
Love,
Me-Who’s-Still-Becoming-Enough

Dear Me (from 4 weeks ago),

I know you’re hurting right now.

I know you feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under you, like you’re free-falling through fear and uncertainty with no idea where—or if—you’ll land.

You’re worried about money. About identity. About worth. You’re scared you’ve lost something too big to name, and maybe even more scared that no one will understand.

But take a breath, because I need to tell you something:
You’re going to be okay. Actually, you’re going to be more than okay.

In the weeks ahead, you’re going to create something that didn’t exist before. You’re going to turn a spark of an idea into something real, something beautiful, something yours. You’ll learn to design, to market, to sell, to hope. You’ll connect with people in new ways. You’ll put your heart on display—and people will see it. They’ll feel it.

You’ll spend your days fully engaged with your daughters—with your mind and heart in the same place, not torn between work emails and tea parties and feeling like you’re failing at both. You’ll bake bread, make fruit leather, start a garden, read books just because they’re fun. You’ll stretch, walk, breathe deeper than you have in years. You’ll remember what it feels like to be fully present. And when your little one looks up and says, “Mommy, I hope you never find another job,” you’ll feel both the ache and the magic of this moment—and you’ll understand why it matters.

You haven’t failed. You’ve shed a life that wasn’t sustainable, and now you’re building something that just might be. You don’t have all the answers yet, and that’s okay. The money piece will come. The clarity will come. For now, just know this:

You’re growing into someone you were always meant to be.

I am so proud of you.

With love and deep trust,
You.

Pro Writing Style Score: 100%

Dear Hiring Process That Left Me Behind,

I remember the day we met. I showed up ready. I’d spent hours selecting the perfect, professional outfit—polished but not too much, impressive but not overwhelming. I styled my hair, put on lip gloss, rehearsed my answers. My desk was littered with sticky notes—reminders of the “right” things to say. I had done my research, prepared for every question, imagined a future where this job could be mine.

It’s hard to put yourself out there. It’s hard to hope for something better. It’s hard to risk judgment, knowing you might be found lacking. The process is long, tedious, exhausting. How can someone judge your worth in just 20 minutes? And yet, I logged into that interview willing to take that risk. Because for a moment, I believed it was worth it.

And I nailed it. I answered with confidence, connected with the panel, and left nothing on the table. I left that virtual room feeling lighter, hopeful, even a little victorious. I told myself, “That went well. They liked me! They want me!!” I let myself believe it, let the excitement settle in, let the possibilities unfold in my mind.

And then, I waited. First with excitement, then with patience, then with doubt. Days turned into weeks. The silence grew heavier with each passing day, pressing down like a weight I couldn’t ignore. Finally, I broke it—a polite follow-up, a gentle nudge. But still, no response.

In that silence, I started to disappear. I replayed our conversation, picking apart my own words, searching for the invisible mistake. Did I laugh too much? Not enough? Was I too eager? Too confident? Were my answers too polished? Too rehearsed? Was I simply not good enough? I thought we had a connection. I thought I mattered. But now I wonder if I was just another name on a long list, another voice fading from your memory the moment we disconnected.

I know I shouldn’t take it personally. But I do.

Because to me, you weren’t just another presence in a virtual meeting. You were an opportunity I took seriously. You were a future I was excited for. You were my hopes and dreams wrapped up in a 20-minute conversation.

Now, you are just disappointment, heavy and unshakable—not just of a lost opportunity, but of something bigger. You are the reminder that candidates are so easily discarded, that companies preach professionalism but don’t offer the same courtesy in return. That “you’ll hear from us soon” often means “you’ll never hear from us again.” That silence speaks volumes, and it says: You weren’t worth a response.

And I don’t accept that.

I am worth a response. I am worth a follow-up. I am worth more than the silence you left behind.

So maybe you won’t call back. Maybe you never intended to. But I will not let your silence define me. I will move forward. I will keep trying. And the next opportunity that comes my way—the one that values my time, my effort, my energy—that will be the one worth waiting for.

Sincerely,
The Candidate You Forgot

To The Love of My Life,

From the moment we first met, I knew my days would never be the same. You bring me comfort when I’m weary, energy when I’m drained, and joy in the smallest, simplest ways. You are my little indulgence, my stolen moment of joy and peace; no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I always find my way to you.

Some may call it a strange devotion—how I seek you out with unwavering certainty or how I light up at the very thought of you. They raise an eyebrow when they see us together yet again, our familiar routine unbroken. Others may call it an obsession. But I simply call it love. And though I share you with so many others, it never matters. What we have is ours.

You are always there for me, waiting patiently—never judging. The moment I step inside, you are already waiting, my usual order prepared before I even have to ask. With that first refreshing sip, the world slows down. The vibrant magenta hue catches the light, swirling like a tiny galaxy in my cup. For a moment, it is just you and me. Your bright, tropical sweetness lingers, exotic and invigorating, giving me exactly what I need to keep going.

And some days, “just keep going” is harder than others. Some days, Exhaustion clings to me. Doubt whispers that I am not enough. These are the days when the world feels overwhelming and simply demands more than I have to give. But then you appear as a simple, steady comfort in the midst of the storm. You remind me to pause. To breathe. To take life one sip at a time. With you, I can take on anything.

You may be a small part of my day. To others, you may not be worth the daily $5.75 price tag. But to me, you are more than a Venti Mango Dragonfruit Refresher. You are a promise to myself that I can keep moving forward. You are assurance that even when the weight of the world presses down, I can still find something sweet.

So, until the very last drop, I am yours.

Forever,
A Resilient Soul

(P.S. I’ll see you again tomorrow—same time, same place.)