Dear Time

You are a thief. That might seem harsh, and maybe a little irrational. I admit that you have given me some of my greatest moments. My wedding day, and the birth of my four beautiful children are just to name a few. Despite what I have been given you have also robbed me. I can’t say that it’s all your fault, but it’s easier to blame others than be accountable for our own lack of action.

During the course of day I wonder if there is ever enough time to complete all that needs to be accomplished. How is it possible that sixty seconds turn into a minute, sixty minutes turn in to an hour, 24 hours turn into a whole day. Gone! Poof! Just like that! Of course, that isn’t the case when I am working. You slow your roll. It’s like honey dripping from a spoon, slow and sticky. Yet, when the workday is finally complete, the large hands on the clock spin out of control. It’s just not fair.

Some say that time is your friend, others say it’s your worst enemy. I guess time is what you make of it. How do you get the most out of the time we have? Are you in control or am I just looking for someone or something to blame? I reflect on that rhetorical question. I was just seventeen when my mom died of cancer. I had a short amount of time to learn from her and love her. My husband and I married just shortly after her passing. We were married for ten years before we had our first of four kids. Ten years to develop a plan, build a nest egg, get prepared for raising a family. We did none of those things. We kept telling ourselves we had time. You are so sneaky. Letting us think that time was infinite. You play with our minds in a way that tricks us into believing we have time. Even when our children were small, I was always watching the time. Time to get up, time for breakfast, time for school, time for bed. I was always and continuously mentioning time. Five more minutes in the tub, ten more minutes to ride your bike. Everything has been hinged on time. Then you blink and they are all grown adults, and you wonder where the time went.

Even today, as I approach my middle-aged years, I wonder if I will be allotted enough time to see my children get married and have kids of their own. I wonder how long I will be able to fall asleep to my husband’s heartbeat, after his cardio-thoracic surgeon brought him back to me. I get it, time is not promised to any of us. We can’t prevent the sands of time from pouring through the hourglass. That being said, there is no time like the present to make changes, make things happen, live like there is no tomorrow. You have taught me that. I can’t get time back, but I can make the most of the time I have left. You have robbed me in the past but not anymore. Now I am not saying that I can’t waste time near a cozy fire with a good book during the winter. Sometimes that is the perfect antidote to a stressful schedule, but I vow that I will make every day count. I will not waste any more time feeling sorry for myself or worrying about what could have been. I will not let time trickle away without achieving something. I am only scratching the surface to who I can become, what I can accomplish and how I can be an example to my family, friends and community. You may have won the battle, but you have not won the war. Time will be on my side because I will make it so.

Time marches on, but so will I. I will hold myself accountable for my failures and celebrate my successes. I have the power to turn negative experiences into positive periods of growth. So, you just keep ticking, let the days turn into weeks, then months, then years. I will continue to grow and become the person I was always meant to be because time does not control me.

Sincerely,
Reva M. Gomes

Style Score 82%

What’s “Love at first sight” for me, you wonder?
It’s the sight of seeing “the lineup” to my favorite musician.
It’s the squeal of “they’re coming to our town” heard across the room.
It’s the desire of “oh my gosh. I need to buy tickets.”
It’s the sensation of “tickets purchased” throughout the nervous system.
It’s the “can’t sleep” process the night before.
It’s the “day of” adrenaline rush that’s used as motivation to make the day go “faster.”
It’s the “beep” of ticket being scanned to enter the arena.
It’s the “look around of approval” that the night is going to be a good night.
It’s the “stop mid performance” to take every ounce of appreciation into vein.
It’s the “this is my song” moment that captures the mood of the night.
It’s the “adoration” of everyone singing just as loud as the person next to them.
It’s the “angelic sight” when everyone is just as relaxed as you are.
It’s the “heartache of knowing” the last song of the night was just sung.
It’s the “gratitude of the night” knowing it was a success.
It’s the “concert hangover” the next morning when reality sets back in.
It’s the “can not wait till next show” blues that settle in until the next show!

Style Score: 100%

Dear Bestie,

I get it. I do.

You’ve been my ride or die since I chickened out from going to the school of Journalism school at the University of Missouri back in the day. Circa 1998.

You held my hand as I decided on that High School English Teacher thing instead when I ended up pregnant at age 21.

You never left and bought a front row ticket to watch as I became a single mom of 4 little girls by the time I hit age 26.

You were there when we walked across that stage to get that degree, 8 months pregnant while my 4-year-old, 3-year-old, and 18-month-old daughters watched as I waddled across that stage.

You never left.

You told me it was ok when I got that D in Shakespeare.

You stayed with me all the way through. My loyalty to you mirrored the loyalty you showed me first. Please know I’m forever grateful.

While teaching teenagers to write, you encouraged me to focus on the Mommin’. It was easy to stay a small-town writer—just a few FB posts here and there and a Substack or two.

Chapter after chapter turned into more than a single book over the course of all those years busy with Mommin’ on the solo.

It’s now 2025, and you’re still here. And I accidentally somehow turned 45. The halfway point.

The 3 oldest daughters, now 23,22, and almost 19 in college and 1 with her own degree, while the youngest, now 18, has only 4 months left before high school graduation as the class valedictorian. The last to leave the nest as she heads to Mizzou at summer’s end.

We always told ourselves, you and I, that I was too busy to write for real. And here we are now, with just a few months left before that excuse no longer pays rent.

Somewhere along the way, I uncovered your real name.

My bestie.

First name: Fear.

Middle name: Writing.

Last name: Books—with a handful of words in between

Fear of Writing the Books. All of them.

But the thing is, I’ve lived with you so long that somewhere along the way I’m no longer scared of you.

I realized that my best friend, Fear, had molded me into the writer I’ve become—a writer whose name I never believed would appear on a book.

Somewhere along the way, fear becomes the thing that refines a girl and makes her better.

Fear becomes the key to unlocking what’s inside you.

The one who is the Creator put that thing into your heart.

The One who placed a girl like me on this earth at this specific time in history to create, produce, and contribute to her people in her places. To use words to help others in their becoming.

I want you to know I am so thankful for you. But the time is here. It’s time to let you go.

I don’t need you anymore. Truth is, I’m a small-town girl, and it wasn’t easy raising 4 little girls on the solo on a teacher’s income, but I did it. And now, it’s time to write.

I needed you for the first 45. I needed a bestie like you. A someone to do life with. To grow me. To help me become.

I made it out of that small-town mentality—the one that holds a girl with a pen hostage. The one that silences dreams too soon.

It’s time to step into who I’ve spent years accidentally becoming—and fully own all that I now am.

I’m done pretending the words I’ve been writing all these years were simply words without an audience.

Words written but never read.

Truth is—the next 45 years is enough time to write all the words for all the people who need to read them.

Those held hostage by their own fears in need of unlocking.

Turns out I’m the owner of the keys. It’s up to me to have the guts to share the words given to me with others in desperate need of the keys given to me in the currency of words.

Fear isn’t the enemy.

Sometimes, she just needs space to help a girl to become.  

With Love Always,

Style Score: 90

My dearest words,

How could I ever thank you enough? You have been my most loyal companion, my truest confidant. With you, I shape my thoughts, unravel my emotions, and scatter pieces of myself across pages for the world to see.

I love the way you reveal my heart without hesitation, how you dance across paper in black and white yet bring a world of color to those who read you. I love how you whisper, shout, and sing—how you weave together moments, memories, and meaning with nothing more than letters strung in perfect harmony.

You demand attention not through force, but through feeling. You linger in minds, stir souls, and invite others to pause, to listen, to understand. You are the bridge between who I am and who I long to be—the echo of my voice when I cannot speak, the story I tell even when I don’t know the ending.

With every stroke of ink, every tap of a key, you allow me to express the inexpressible, to bring my inner world into the light. You are my power, my refuge, my way of making sense of it all.

And so, I love you. With every thought, every emotion, and every piece of myself I give to you, I love you.

Forever yours,
A writer in love with words

style score is 100%

Dear Anger,

I’ve been dishonest in my feelings for too long. I couldn’t stop loving you even if I tried. The level of intimacy that we share is unrivaled. My body knows you’ve arrived long before my brain does. You cause my hands to feel weightless as you cradle them warmly. Your voice is a melody that my ears never tire of. The taste of you spreads across my tongue into every crevice of my mouth. I can feel your spirit like a firecracker within my chest, threatening to make me come undone. When I breathe, I inhale your scent and exhale your passion. You challenge me in ways that I never dreamed possible. When I shirk and shy away from confrontation, your ardent embrace entices me to demand better. When I’m at a loss for words, you grant me yours, even if just for a moment. Your presence is commanding and frightening, and yet I wouldn’t know how to live without it. When something is unjust, it is you that calls for change. It’s one of my favorite things about you. I have to admit that you’re always on my mind, even when you probably shouldn’t be. I think of you in traffic, at work, and especially when I’m watching the news. More than anything, you push me to live my life outside of the bubble we share. You don’t feed into my codependent tendencies; instead, you motivate me to fight against them. You challenge me to consider all the options that I could pursue without you, even though we both know you’re always there for me when I need you. It’s comforting to know that even in my darkest moments, I can rely on your fiery spirit to brighten my path. You are my one true love. Everything I feel, I feel it because of you. You are difficult to love. Most people find you difficult to be around. You can be impatient, vulgar, and rude on your worst days. I’ve grown fond of calling you my unlovable lover in conversation. Sometimes I wish I didn’t love you because maybe then life would be a little easier, a little quieter, a little smaller. But you constantly remind me that love should be hard, loud, and large. I can’t promise much in this life, but I can promise you this; I will fight for your love every day the same way you fight for me. I love you, and I only hope everyone experiences the love I’ve been fortunate enough to share with you.

Your lover,

Makayla Judge

Style Score: 100%

Dear Fear,

I see you. I know your patterns. You slip in quietly, not as a roar but as a whisper, as a slight hesitation, a second round of overthinking, a perfectly rational reason to wait just a little longer. You don’t paralyze me outright–you just keep me moving away from stillness. You make sure I’m always reaching for the next thing, because as long as I’m reaching, I never have to ask: Is this already enough?

But I’ve unraveled your disguise.

You call yourself ambition. You dress up as refinement, as striving, as self-improvement. But underneath it all, you are the belief that I must earn my right to rest, to be seen, to feel fulfilled. You have convinced me that I am safest when I am becoming, because if I am becoming, I do not have to confront the truth that scares me the most:

What if, after all the becoming, I still feel like something is missing?

I won’t play this game anymore.

Here’s why you won’t win:

I know now that I do not need to chase anything to be whole. Growth is not the same thing as peace. Motion is not the same thing as meaning. Reinvention is not the same thing as belonging. The future version of me–the one you keep telling me will feel better, lighter, more at home in herself–she is not waiting on the other side of more effort. She is already here.

I am overcoming you not by fighting you, but by refusing to let you dictate my pace. I will not let the next project, the next revision, the next version of myself be the condition for my contentment. I will write, create, share–not to chase an outcome, but because the act itself is enough. I will let my work exist without over-editing it into submission. I will let myself exist without constantly preparing for the next iteration.

I will stay present, no matter how uncomfortable that feels.

You can stay, Fear. I’m not exiling you. But you don’t get to lead me anymore. I will walk forward, not because I am afraid of stillness, but because my soul chooses movement from a place of fullness, not lack.

And the best part? I don’t need to win against you. Because I have already stopped losing to you.

Sincerely,
Me.

style score 84%

Dear fear of mine,

Imagine peak summertime, peak childhood, skin fully lathered in Coppertone. 

It was a Friday, my last day of swim lessons. 

You introduced yourself to me with the persistence quite like a morning glory, winding from belly to throat until I became entangled with the unavoidably obvious fact that my time had come to walk the dreaded plank towards my destiny . 

The final test.

The diving board. 

Shuffling one foot in front of the other, I gripped the edge of the board with pruned toes and watched as the crystal blue oasis below transformed into the darkest pool of uncertainty . 

Paralyzed, I wondered why anyone in their right mind would put themselves in a situation such as this one. 

 I looked over at my dad, whose words echoed in the canals of my water logged ears. 

“You can do it” 

Your vine of flowering hesitation tightened with each beat of my terrified heart, but somewhere, beneath the ripples of doubt, a quiet knowing grew. 

So I made the leap, nose pinched, eyes closed, and plunged into the realization that the anecdote to loosen your hold is only to jump unabashedly into what I am called to do.

And as I continue to navigate life’s pools of possibilities, standing on the water’s edge of all that is before me, I see you not as the vine that holds me captive, but the current that unravels its grip, leading me from the tangled shores of uncertainty into the deep reservoir of my own courage. 

Style Score 77%

Love it

Since the moment i saw you i fell in love
The age of 5 is where my mind goes watching All that at nick at night
At the age of 7-8 i would watch more channels and just couldn’t get my eyes off of the food channel
“bam ,bam” is the words i heard and the audience clapping right after it
Right before a commercial the show band will play doc gibs
It was chef Emeril lagasse i could not stop watching
He made me fall in love with the kitchen
Influencing my young self to make my first scrambled egg all by myself
Even though i was afraid of fire i still tackled that stove on medium low for a few minutes to cook the eggs
Food and music is a universal language on any occasion it soothes your soul from a birthday or attending a funeral
It is cold comfort food fro a reason
Learning that we have some many spices and seasonings other than salt and pepper
I would later on learn how to cook selfish ,chicken and other protein and just be so proud of myself
Impressing my mom and grandma with my dishes at a young age was the biggest pride
They can leave me alone at home and i will be fine i could cook for myself and sibling if i have to
My biggest pass time is in the kitchen whether it is with family or just trying out new dishes
Cooking is the coolest and most fun way to not only bond with someone but get to know their culture and likes /dislikes

Dear fear ,

I have been avoiding you most my life until i figured out what was happening.

You see , i was the first born so my mom overprotected me from everything.

Every time i would fall she was there to catch me both literally and figuratively.

My dad was not around much and when he was i did not listen to his advice due to him not having my respect. Although a neglectful parent, he sought my attention to follow his counsel. His selective role-playing prompted me to selectively heed his words. Though some bitterness remains after all these years, a significant portion of his claims were accurate.

Its just the messenger was the right one to get the message across.

I was afraid of success to be honest because i was fine with being just average.

Was not into education but i was intelligent just never applied myself.

Was not into socializing i was okay being by myself 

Am i good enough ? Am I not smiling enough? laugh more ?

I am okay with being alone

I remained completely frozen by fear and did nothing for years.

Now it fuels me and with those voices of self doubt i still go

My daily routine includes self-care, even when battling tiredness, depression, or anxiety.

I still go out , still workout and remain active not sitting much on my couch or laying in bed

Face your fears is what my grandfather always says 

I learned to not only acknowledge you feat but to appreciate your role in life

Even when those voices tell me to stop i keep going

I’m afraid of the unknown, but I know what’s best for me lies ahead, so I’ll keep growing.

I hope you’re aware that I won’t back down from a fight with you.

Sincerely: your biggest and toughness rival my will to succeed , Isaac is me 

if “happiness is a butterfly”,
you are a bumble bee.
honey suckles seep
with opportunity
to propogate potential.

the unversal gift
of the life // death // life

the ability to embody
a honeycomb

transmuting
persperation
into pollination

finding a melody
in the hymn song
of the heartbeat

solice in the comfort
of faith,
knowing that Earth Mother,
will make sure everything is okay.

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%)

Same principle as-Dear John.
You are not leaving, So-I will!
You tell me so much-untrue,
So I am divorcing and leaving you!
Not married to you, nor addictions few-
You won’t go, won’t budge, So-I will move!

Though I have no idea how,
My learns of Jesus-He makes free,
Giving me rest… And He will best teach me,
How to defeat your homemade nest of Glee.
The one you built for years on end,
A false comfort-false feeling friend…
You was/is/am not who I thought-
You’re lying surviving, dread to me brought.

You can have me no more!
No reason any longer to fear myself,
For I don’t control me anymore -Jesus does!
Under His umbrella of Grace-
I’m found and completely safe!

Fear… whence comest thou?
I know not-though we are parting ways…
No evil to fear for the rest of my days!
No lies beside me-Jesus keeps them away,
Though around the bend you may sit at Bay-
I see thee far off and turn to you deaf ear,
You seek but don’t find… Your voice I cannot hear!

No words to you I have of my own,
Because Jesus true-builds me a new home!
You cannot have my kids, you cannot have my wife-
For you are dead my old cheating friend…
Because Jesus has ended your life!

I’ve already known fear,
Now it’s time to know God-
And fear cannot win because…

2 Timothy 1:7
For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, of love, and of a sound of mind.

… This promised fact I trust and love!!!

Dear Me,
I grew up in a household where anger was first, love was last. No one nurtured me lovingly. I spent my days in fear. My parents were so wrapped up in their own world it seemed they forgot that parenting is more than just food, shelter, clothes, etc. My biggest fear is becoming anything like them.
My father was not the best. On the outside, he was a teddy bear that the world loved. If you asked anyone, he was overall a good man. The man I knew, however, was terrifying. He drank and did drugs. He also was very abusive towards my mother and I. The things I seen go on between him and my mother no child should ever see. The things he did to me, on the other hand, were far worse. Without going into too much detail, black and blue were colors I was very familiar with. When around outsiders, he was loving, which at that young confused me. I could not tell what was reality. I never knew who to trust. I had a very hard time with things such as making friends, understanding who to ask for help, controlling my emotions, and many other things. He also put me in situations with other adults that had no business being anywhere near me in the ways they were. This caused more issues. Like not understanding boundaries, allowing things to happen to me that were very bad, and other unspeakable things. To some it up, he was my dad, but in reality, he was my nightmare, day in and day out.
My mother is a gentle being. She worked very hard to make sure me and my brothers had everything we could ever need in life. Within that, she lacked in places that are very vital to a child. With everything she went through with my dad, she forgot what it was to be a mother. Or at least to me, anyway. My mom got pregnant with my twin brothers when I was two years old. Sadly, my dad was not happy about this and begged her to get an abortion. When they were born, one of them was ill and almost died. This sent my mother into a rage against my dad for ever wanting an abortion. So when things with my dad got worse, she made it her mission to protect them against anything bad that came from my dad. Sadly, this left me in the dark. I at the very young age of three years old had to learn to protect myself. She would clean up after every mess they made, always alert them if they did something my dad didn’t like, and to always take the fall if he was upset with them. This caused me and my mom to become very distant. I did not feel love and nurtured by her at all.
I just had my first child. He is the sweetest little guy in the world. I could not imagine him going through anything I did as a child. My biggest fear is becoming like my parents. I don’t worry about me becoming like my dad too much. Sadly, I have some of his mental problems, such as the bipolar disorder, depression, and major anxiety. I worry about these things because I could hurt my child with my words or my distance. However, I go to counseling and get treatment for these things, working really hard to ensure I am more than just my mental status. I also fear that overworking or becoming too focused elsewhere might create a distance between my child and me, similar to the distance I experienced with my mother. I don’t plan to do these things, but I am not perfect.
So, to my son, I promise to try. I promise to focus on everything that involves you. I promise to put you first, no matter the situation. I promise to use all I have inside me to ensure you never feel unloved or unprotected. Most importantly, I promise to make sure you never have to question yourself one day the way I’m questioning myself now. I will always make sure you understand what true love is and how to give it back to the word in your own ways. I know I will not always be a perfect mother, but I will do my very best to be the best that I can be because you, my child, hold my heart and soul in the palm of your hands.
Yours truly,
A very nervous momma.
(Style Score 83%)

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 My Mental Hindering Voice,

The sense of defeat is my fear. There are many mental emotions that are associated with that. Which includes; Frustration, Self-doubt and being powerless.

Just when we have reached the peak of our goal, that negative intellectual-emotional wave comes through mention, “You have the inability to achieve anything higher than your normal shift job.” She happens to be in her car and stated, “Insecurity and cognitive dissatisfaction no longer lives here rent free, because I am her, and she is a shining light!”

Thinking, “You so see, you are a failure, right?” Like everything you do is a loss. Whatever your abilities are, they’re lacking; you fall short and no one is pleased. So, I am speaking out loud, “Confidence is why I get me out of bed!”, attacking new tasks, and making someone day is the highlight of my life. My darkness, I expel you from all my personal tunnels!

“Defenseless obstacles that inherited setbacks. That also caused you to have a change in strength that made you useless and minor authority.” stated her abstract self. She looked at her beautiful reflection and stated, “Being beat down & paralyzed or being a victim.”, I eject you from any influence on my cognitive thoughts, even on my dark days.

I, Jamie Rachelle Smith, nullifies any negative intellectual, anything less than confidence and paralyzed influence on cognitive thoughts. Because you are her, a d she is you and you are Mrs. Jamie Rachelle Smith.

With so much Love and no misunderstanding;

A Victorious Woman

Score 75%

Through contemplation, self-work, and a willingness to set and stick to my goals, I have already overcome you multiple times. However, every time I overcome you, instead of slinking away, vanquished, you morph instead. You have remained linked to the root fear, that this cycle will never be broken, but you sagely switch from one facet to another, evading full decimation through your ability to evolve.

I remember the dread that things would never change and never improve, that I would be stuck forever in this emotional and psychological abuse. However, with my adulthood came a freedom to make my own choices. One of my first choices was to leave rather than continue taking abuse from my would-be-protectors.

My second choice was to seek professional help. I had a more concrete fear, one I could name to said professional. I wanted to work on ways to avoid what felt like an inevitability. I did not want to become my father, with his anger, pride, and addiction, all of which would always be more valuable to him than his family. I also did not want to marry my father, an adage that my mother had been scaring me with for longer than I could remember. Little girls always marry their fathers, she would say, and I would shudder myself to sleep at the idea that I could be so blinded or affected as to end up with a monster like Him.

So I worked through those fears. I grew, and I changed. For a time, I was convinced this fear was gone completely. I became engaged and married to a man who was kind, who had no vices harder than video games, and with no adverse anger issues that I noticed in our three years of courtship. Better yet, when we did have conflicts, he was the first to say we should see a counselor to avoid our small problems becoming insurmountable. He was willing to work on himself, too.

As years pass, I continue to work on myself. I am back in therapy due to work stress and burnout. I work on creating healthy boundaries between myself and my parents. I can only have them in my life in a way that feels safe and manageable. Now my fears are about my siblings, whom I practically raised at times. They have not had as easy of a time extricating themselves from the habits and mistakes of our parents. They have fallen into similar patterns and pitfalls. I look at my sister and see shades of our mother. She is stronger in many ways and is actively working on herself as well, but she struggles to find peace within herself and is always trying to seek affirmation from her partners. When she is stressed and lonely, she leans too heavily into her vices. She can be erratic and difficult to communicate with. I want to help her veer of this path, because we all know where it leads, but I am not sure how.
I look at my brother and hear my father in the thunderous roar of his anger. He can be irrational and prideful. He takes every comment as an attack and steps forward guns blazing, ready to defend himself. Even when the “enemy” is a loved one, even his three-year-old daughter. I see him treating his daughter the same way our father treated us and it breaks my heart. I want him to look inward and find a way to soothe his anger, but I worry he is too much like our father to ever think that the problem lies within him. To ever consider that maybe he is the one who needs help.

So I stand here on the outside, having broken free of the cycle. I watch my family still spinning in these pre-made ruts, unable to break free. Unable to see for yourselves how stuck you are. My fear is that there is nothing I can do to help you. I have offered a hand and you’ve smacked it away. I have held up mirrors and you shatter them with denials, detract with your dismissals. I ache and I stress, because not only do you suffer and wither away, but you hold my niece and nephews close, tying them to the cycle. Will you give them no other choice than to follow in your footsteps as well? Will this endless cycle of addiction and abuse be their fate?

The only way to conquer this fear is admit to myself that these choices, your choices, are ultimately out of my hands. I have to find some way to accept those things I cannot change. And learn to love you anyway, warts and all.

With much trepidation,
M. A. D.

72% Style Score