I know you.
I’ve seen the way you hold the world on your shoulders with a grace that no one recognizes as exhaustion. I’ve watched you sit in rooms full of people and shrink just enough so your sadness doesn’t make anyone else uncomfortable. You are loud in your laughter, soft in your pain, and silent in your suffering.
And yet—here you are.
Breathing. Waking up. Holding the line.
You didn’t scream when it hurt. You didn’t curse when they left. You didn’t collapse when everything crumbled—you just adjusted your posture and carried on.
But I need you to hear this: survival is not the only thing you’re allowed to do.
You are allowed to feel joy so deep it makes your eyes well up for no reason. You’re allowed to walk into a room and let your story arrive with you. You’re allowed to stop explaining the way you love, the way you need, the way you hope.
You’ve already proven you can survive.
Now, can you learn how to be seen?
Because I see you. All of you. Even the parts you wrapped in silence and named strength. Even the parts you thought were too much, too broken, too complicated to be held.
You are allowed to be held.
You are allowed to be happy.
And it is not too late.