EPISTLE V: To The Mother-Wound That Still Bleeds
To the child who feels like Mother’s Day is a day of mourning,
not because you didn’t love your mother, but because you could never seem to love her enough to stop the cycle.
I am with you in giving myself permission to express the hidden dread I feel from the cultural pressure of Mother’s Day.
If Mother’s Day feels complicated for you, you are not alone. Some of us are celebrating. Some of us are grieving. Some are estranged. Some are surviving memories no one else saw. Some are learning that forgiveness and boundaries are not enemies. Some of us are still in denial.
EPISTLE III: To The One Sitting At The Well
To the one whose story has more hard chapters than you know how to summarize —
whose life, if spoken plainly, feels like it might shift the room — I am with you and I am writing to you from my very own latest hard chapter.
To the one who has loved, and lost, and tried again. And then again.
To the one who now sits in spaces of faith with a quiet question lingering beneath the surface: What does this make me now?