I’m here to tell you something you may or may not be ready to hear, Dear One. You see, there is a truth buried deep in your heart that you may not always see. This truth is as old as time itself, yet it is often obscured by the weight of the kind of expectations this world can place upon you, and by the shadows of the wounds you’ve carried for so long. This truth I’m speaking of is painfully simple, yet it radiates profundity: You are enough just as you are. Your pain, your fear, your brokenness—none of it defines you. And the greatest journey of your life will be the return to the truth of your being, to the gorgeous, shimmering wholeness that is your birthright.
Believe it or not, I understand the weight you carry, Dear
One; the heaviness in your chest when you long to be more, to show up more
fully in the world. I know what it feels like to feel lost within the map and
memory of your own skin, to search for something—anything—that will bring you
back to the truth of who you are. And let me tell you, I know how easy it is to
fall into the illusion that you must fix yourself before you can begin to live
authentically. But Dear One, the very act of being you is
sacred. You, with all your messiness, is a thing as sacred as anything in all
of creation. And, trust me when I tell you, your imperfections are not
shortcomings. Your wounds are not curses—they are, in fact, the fertile ground
from which your burgeoning wisdom can grow.
I, too, know what it is like to feel unseen, to feel like a
ghost in your own life. To grow up in a broken home, surrounded by pain and
alcoholism, is to be born into a world that can feel cruel, confusing and unforgiving. My own
childhood, despite moments of immeasurable beauty and laughter, was also marked by isolation, by abandonment, and most of all, by the
darkness of the most heinous kind of sexual abuse imaginable. And for many
years, I hid those parts of myself. I guess I thought I could outrun the pain,
that somehow, if I raced hard enough and for long enough, I could outrun my own
story. But no matter how far I ran, no matter how steady my stride, the wounds
followed me. The more I suppressed them, the more they whispered in my ear,
telling me that I was not worthy of love, of connection, or of peace.
In those moments, I turned to the wisdom of spiritual
teachings to help guide me back to myself. I found solace in the ancient wisdom
of Buddhism, where I learned that all suffering is born from attachment—to
ideas of who we are, to the ways we want to be seen, to the false selves we
build to protect us from the world. In the teachings of the Buddha, I came to
understand that true freedom is found not in fixing the self, but in letting go
of the need to be fixed. We are already whole, and our healing
comes not from becoming something we are not, but by remembering the truth of
who we have always been.
It is in this acceptance of ourselves—our light, our shadow,
our pain—that we begin to heal. The Buddha teaches us that suffering is part of
the human condition, but it is also the doorway to compassion. Compassion, for
ourselves and for others, is the balm that soothes the wounds of the heart.
When we face our suffering with love instead of fear, we begin to see the
beauty in our brokenness. And it is through this beauty that we can reach out
to others, not from a place of superiority, but from a place of shared
humanity.
In the same way, the teachings of Hinduism speak of the
divine essence within each of us. We are not separate from the divine—we are
the divine in human form. We may forget this truth, but it is always there,
waiting for us to remember. The path of yoga, of self-inquiry, and of devotion
is the path of returning to this truth. It is a path of surrender—surrender to
the divine love that is always flowing, even when we cannot feel it. And it is
this surrender that allows us to return to ourselves, not as someone we wish to
be, but as the person we are at the deepest, most sacred level.
And in the Christian tradition, we are reminded that Jesus
came to show us the way of radical love. He, too, understood what it was like
to be misunderstood, to be rejected, to be abandoned by those he loved. Yet in
the midst of this suffering, He chose love. He chose compassion. He chose to
see the divine in every person, even those who betrayed him. His life was not
about perfection, but about meeting the world in its brokenness with
unconditional love. And through His suffering, He offers us the profound truth
that we are never alone in our pain. We are always seen, always loved, always
embraced. In Christ’s love, we find the courage to look at our own wounds and
say, “I am worthy of love just as I am.”
And here, in this very truth, you may feel the tension of
the world you live in—the struggle to show up for others when you are depleted,
when your own well is dry. It is hard, I know. When your heart is heavy with
your own burdens, it can feel impossible to offer anything to others, to be
present with those you love. Sometimes the wounds we carry feel like too much
to bear, and it can seem like there’s nothing left to give. But this is the
paradox of our human experience: the more we open to our own vulnerability, the
more we can offer the gift of presence to those around us. Showing up, even
when we feel broken, is a form of sacred courage.
Know this, Dear One—any effort to show up, no matter how
small, is worth celebrating. Each moment you choose to be present with
another, to offer your love, your listening ear, or even your silent
companionship, you are showing that person the depth of your own humanity. And
that is sacred. Even in your exhaustion, even in your pain, the love you offer
is real. And you are doing more than you can imagine. The act of being there,
even when it feels imperfect or incomplete, is an act of profound love and
connection.
You may feel empty right now, lost in the currents of your
past, uncertain of who you are or where you are headed. But I promise you, the
very fact that you are asking these questions, seeking to know yourself more
deeply, is proof that you are ready for transformation. It is a sign that your
soul is waking up, that you are beginning to move toward the life you were
always meant to live.
To begin this journey, you do not need to find a “better”
version of yourself. You do not need to erase the past or pretend to be someone
you are not. No, the first step is the most difficult and the most beautiful
one: to allow yourself to be exactly as you are. This is the
greatest act of love you can give yourself. To be vulnerable. To face the parts
of yourself you’ve hidden away, to meet your wounds with tenderness and
compassion.
And as you do this, you will begin to notice something
extraordinary: a quiet, steady peace that begins to grow within you. It will be
subtle at first, perhaps just a flicker of light in the darkness, but it will
grow. This peace is the peace of coming home to yourself. It
is the peace that comes when we stop running from the truth of who we are, and
instead, sit in the silence with it, as it is.
Mary Oliver, in her poem "Wild Geese," speaks
so beautifully to this truth:
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”
This is the invitation: to stop striving, to stop
pretending. To let go of the idea that you need to fix yourself. To simply
allow yourself to love what you love, to feel what you feel, and to honor the
journey that has brought you here. You are already whole, even when you feel
broken. You are already enough, even when you feel empty.
Remember, Dear One, that the most important thing is not
what you do, but who you are. And who you are is sacred and worthy of love—always. Your pain, your struggles, your
imperfections, they are not obstacles to your truth—they are the very stepping
stones that will carry you back to the fullness of who you are.
This journey is not easy. I cannot in good conscience pretend that it is. It will require patience, courage, and a deep willingness to face the parts of yourself that you may have ignored for so long. But you are not alone in this. Every soul who walks this earth carries the same longing to be seen, to be loved, to be whole. We are all walking this path together. We are, as Ram Dass reminds us, "all walking each other home."
As you begin to find the courage to walk this path, let the words of Wendell Berry help to guide you:
"The world is a beautiful place, and it’s worth fighting for."
You are a beautiful place in this beautiful world; and you are also worth fighting for.
And, Dear One, despite the difficulties in the harrowing journey we call life, it is and remains, worth fighting for, not just with your
hands, but with your whole heart. You are worthy of every drop of love, every bit of
peace, and every moment of connection that you seek. You are already enough.
See you on the road, Dear One.
