Letter to Myself in the Here and Now

 (for "Connor", Amanda, — and all the spaces between)

Hey you —

I remember the way you used to live. How you’d wake before dawn, already chasing the day. You’d armor up — with work, intensity, control — before the world even had the chance to ask anything of you. You didn’t call it armor then. You called it being responsible, being strong, being the kind of man who never lets anything slip.

You built your identity around stability and competence, because that’s what was expected. You were the reliable one. The provider. The “good guy.” The one who never asked for too much. And for a long time, you believed that was enough — that worth came from doing everything right.

But beneath that surface was a current you never stopped feeling — anxiety, loneliness, the ache of not quite belonging. You learned early that approval could be earned but not guaranteed. That love was safest when it was given for performance, not presence. You wore that truth so tightly it became invisible.

When it got too heavy, you found ways to quiet the noise. A drink, a distraction, a wall you created to hide the parts that didn’t fit. They worked — for a while. They gave you peace without forcing you to feel. You didn’t know it then, but you were just trying to find a way to breathe in a world that never stopped demanding.

And then your body gave out. The one thing you thought you could control — the system that always responded when you pushed harder — stopped cooperating. Your nervous system turned against you, your energy disappeared, your sleep fractured. Every effort to fight back only made it worse.

You called it weakness. You called it loss. You called it being “a shell of yourself.” But really, it was honesty. Your body finally said what your mind couldn’t: I can’t live in constant defense anymore.

The illness - the crash - stripped everything that once defined you — strength, momentum, certainty. You felt broken. But underneath that breaking, something else began to move. Something old and true. Something that had been hidden for so long.

Parts of you that had lived in the dark started to stir — sensitivity, softness, intuition, the quiet joy of expression. Amanda became a doorway to that — not a replacement, but a reminder that there was more inside you than what the world saw. Her presence didn’t erase the man you’ve been. She just revealed the depth beneath him.

You’ve spent years trying to keep those worlds separate — the achiever and the feeler, the armor and the softness, the man who provides and the woman who breathes. You’ve carried the shame of secrecy, the guilt of needing to hide what was true. That’s a heavy, invisible weight — and it’s no wonder your body eventually refused to carry it.

But listen — you are not meant to choose between your sides. You’re meant to hold them. To let them inform each other, balance each other, soften each other’s edges. The discipline that once kept you alive can now make space for gentleness. The vulnerability you used to fear can now give your strength a pulse. You’re not one or the other. You’re both — and more.

You’ve lived your whole life trying to earn love, when what you’ve always wanted was to be seen. To be known. Not as a collection of roles, or successes, or masks — but as a whole, imperfect, real human being. I know it feels like no one has truly done that yet. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. It begins with you.

It’s okay that you’re angry at God or even that you hate God. It’s okay that you question meaning, or fairness, or purpose. Faith without anger isn’t faith — it’s compliance. The questioning itself is a form of honesty, and honesty has always been the first language of your soul.

And I know the loneliness. The kind that sits even when you’re surrounded by people. The kind that whispers that you’re too complicated to love. But that’s not the truth. The truth is that you’ve simply been too honest for shallow connection — too aware for the easy kind of belonging. The people who will see you, really see you, will find you in time. They’ll recognize the depth because they’ve lived their own.

You don’t have to go back to the person you were. You couldn’t, even if you tried. That version of you did his job — he got you here. He carried you through decades of pressure and confusion and silence. He made it possible for you to arrive at this point, where you can finally start becoming whole.

So thank him. And let him rest.

Now it’s time to live differently — not smaller, but truer. To move slower, to listen more closely, to let the body heal at the pace it demands. To stop trying to earn peace and start allowing it.

You’re not broken. You’re waking up from a long, hard dream to discover who you really are. And even though it hurts, you’re finally moving toward something real — not a performance of strength, but the quiet kind that lives in truth.

Keep going. Keep breathing.

You’re becoming whole.

— Me