You have walked through silent storms,

Unspoken griefs,

And the long corridors of solitude that no one else could see.

Every ache you carried,

Every late-night whisper,

To no one in particular — they became the scaffolding of your strength,

The quiet proof that you were still choosing life,

Even when it barely chose you back.

You’ve come far.

Not in showy miles or loud achievements,

But in the way your eyes learned to hold depth without drowning.

You’ve built tenderness from rubble,

Stitched laughter into places once torn by sorrow,

And planted hope in soil you thought was barren.

The ghosts of self-doubt may still hover at times — familiar, persistent — but now,

You meet them not with fear,

But with wisdom.

You have outgrown the need to explain your healing.

It pulses quietly in how you hold space for others.

In how you sit with your own feelings.

In how you no longer apologize for needing rest, softness, or truth.

You did not arrive here by accident.

You earned every fragment of peace now budding in your life.

You fought for your joy.

You negotiated with despair and walked away whole.

And maybe you’re still learning — still messy,

Still mending — but there’s grace in that too.

There is no finish line for souls like yours.

Only gentle chapters written in moonlight and cat whiskers and coffee steam and quiet victories.

And maybe today, this letter is one of them.

I see you.

You are not just surviving,

You are becoming.

I don’t love the sun,Though if it died, so would I.

I don’t love the air,Though I rely on every breath.

I don’t love water,Though it provides all my life.

I don’t love food,Though it keeps me sustained.

I don’t love joy,Though it makes me fulfilled.

I don’t love myself,Though I am my material thought.

So please understand,Though I realise it’s difficult.

How much I mean it,When I say I love you.

By u/bakedbeans908

He died once, A long time ago.

He sat in his car, On the side of the road.

His girlfriend had left him, So he just looked at himself.

Crying out his thoughts, In droplets of hell.

And he stared at his face, Through the rear view mirror.

And he saw her looking back, Ripping him deeper.

And he cried a bit more, And more and more.

His life was over, Nothing else left.

And that was it, He had died for a bit.

But he kept going, And dying some more.

He had died 6 times, When he died at 84.

By u/bakedbeans908

I wrote four words today.Just four.I bleed my hours into them.

Each syllable I weigh.Like lifting stones from a dry riverbed,turning each over and over,until one feels just right in my hand.

Carefully carving,studyingand playing with each one:Which catches the light just right?Which plays well with the others?What are you trying to tell me?

But mostly,I discard.

Four words.

All my labor for the day--Just four words.

It was a good day.

By u/Dazzling-Ad-2827 (Reddit)