My Friend,
I know you’re suffering. And though I wish with all my heart that I could lift the weight you carry, I know I cannot. What I can do is witness you, hold space for you, and remind you that you are not alone.
When I look into your eyes, I see a familiar sorrow, the ache of loss, the confusion of unraveling, the grief that floods the heart when the ground beneath us shifts. I have walked through those shadows too, and sometimes, I still do. But you, my dear one, are in the thick of it now. And this is a tender, trying place to be.
It is also a lonely place.
What once felt solid is crumbling, and the disorientation can feel like a personal undoing — as if life is reaching into your very core, unweaving what you thought you knew. This kind of transformation is not the loud kind. It doesn’t announce itself with clarity or ease. It is quiet, raw work, done in the hush of solitude, sometimes in despair.
And yet, it is sacred.
It will get easier. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow. But in time, the heaviness will begin to lift.
This pain, as impossible as it seems, is your medicine. It doesn’t feel like healing right now, I know. But if you can stay with it, resist the urge to flee or numb or distract, you will come to see its deeper gift. There is wisdom buried here. There is truth.
Right now, you are holding more sorrow than one lifetime should have to bear. This pain is old. It belongs not just to you, but to the lineage that lives in your bones. It is collective, ancestral, cosmic. There is so much that has been lost, and yet, all that is meant for you will return, in its own perfect time.
Trust that.
Breathe. Stay close to yourself. Listen to the stories this pain is trying to tell. They don’t need to be fixed or solved only witnessed, only honoured.
You are not breaking. You are meeting yourself — fully, fiercely, tenderly — perhaps for the first time. And you, my friend, are far older, far wiser, far more whole than you know.
This work you’re doing is not meant to be understood. It is meant to be experienced, survived, integrated. It is mystery, profound and humbling.
After my own forty days in the desert, after the storms and silences and the deep inner reckoning, I emerged changed. Not perfect, not finished, but more myself. I came to feel more rooted in my body, more in rhythm with the earth, more attuned to the sorrow and beauty of others. And though I wouldn’t have chosen the path, I can now see the gift in having walked it.
So please remember, even in your isolation: you are not alone. I walk beside you, even if you can’t see me. There are unseen hands on your back, holding you, steadying you. You are deeply loved, deeply guided, and more beautiful than you could ever imagine.
This work you are doing will one day light the way for others. And that, too, is part of the mystery.
Our vulnerabilities, our grief, our shame are not stains to be hidden, but portals to our greatest strength. When honoured, they become our allies. They teach us to care for ourselves, to build boundaries, to take responsibility for our wounds and for the ways we’ve wounded others.
We are flawed. We are radiant. We are doing the best we can with the awareness we have. And as we grow, we lift others up with us.
This is mighty work. And you, my beloved friend, are not doing it alone. The helpers, visible and invisible, are all around you.
Your friend,
Emma
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