Letters to Myself: Entry Seventy-Four
Grief is strange. There’s no other word for it. It knocks you off your feet, makes you reach for an invisible hand, and then catches you again in a smell, a sound, a memory. This reflection sits with that honestly — and asks what grief is trying to teach us about living.
Letters to Myself: Entry Sixty-Nine
Rilke wrote that the more love you give, the more you possess. Viktor Frankl survived a holocaust holding onto that truth. And sometimes you can see it just as clearly in a long line at the State Fair — if you're paying attention.
Letters to Myself: Entry Sixty-Six
Grief is love with nowhere to go — but that doesn't mean it's wasted. Reflecting on those we've lost, carrying them forward, and appreciating the people still here with us today might be the most human thing we can do.
Letters to Myself: Entry Thirty-One
Commitment isn’t about perfection—it’s about choosing someone or something again and again, with patience, humility, and faith, even when it’s hard.