Dear One,
I know you’re tired.
I can see it in the dark half-moons under your eyes, and they way they’ve lost their shine.
I see you when you lie awake at night, wondering how you got to this place.
I know you’ve tried so hard.
To keep your family intact.
To keep your head above the rising waters.
To hold yourself together.
I know a part of you just wants to give up, to slip into the cold waters, letting the chill embrace you and consume you.
Letting the darkness swallow you up.
I know, it feels sometimes like the only option,
Like you can’t keep treading anymore.
You are sick of the forced smile plastered on your face.
You can’t even bear to look at your reflection.
The voices, constantly barrage your senses, void of reason or meaning,
“If only I had….”
“I will never be loved.”
“It’s all my fault.”
Let me tell you something:
Something so true it resonated before the earth was born….
It’s NOT your fault.
You were meant to be loved.
You deserve it.
You were created for someone to know you fully and love you so completely and totally.
(And I do.)
You deserve to live like you did when you were a child,
With joy as your reality,
Wonder and amazement your friends.
I want you to feel like the world is bright and in front of you
Like anything is possible
To be free and feel like you are beautiful
And to know you can do anything.
This may feel like a distant memory from someone else’s dream,
But let me tell you,
I want to take you back to that place.
Back to the garden of possibility.
Back to the shoreline, to feel the warmth of the sun on your face
To know, everything will be alright.
To know your brokenness isn’t a curse,
But how the light gets in.
So please, I beg you.
Don’t ever stop fighting.
Not in the sense where it feel like the weight of others are on your shoulders,
But in the sense where you know you’ve just got to take one more step,
For you.
For your children.
For the bright future.
For love, again.
One day it will be better.
One day you will see Me
and know I redeemed all of this.
And it will be your story,
The pages you’ll recite to your children’s children,
On how you walked through hell and came out the other side.
It’s my miracle,
Let me write the ending.
brookelouvier.com 