About Love Letters to Myself

A robot. That's what life turns you into if you let it.

Be happy in the summer.

Retreat in the winter.

Meet someone.

Build a life around them.

Do it all in the right order.

And somehow, it still doesn't feel like enough.

Forty.

No husband.

No kids.

Everyone waiting for me to explain myself.

Everyone telling me to settle the fire.

So I lit it up.

I was fucking fed up with coaching. With people telling me what is right, what is wrong, what I should want, how I should heal, how I should live.

So I decided to go to war with myself instead.

To question everything I thought I knew.

Friends.

Sex.

Love.

Success.

Loneliness.

Beauty.

And all the social rules I had somehow accepted without ever agreeing to them.

One day, I created a Facebook page called Love Letters to Myself.

I chose the name because I needed to be loved on this journey.

And sometimes, love towards yourself is the hardest love to give—and the most necessary one.

It was simply the first name that came to my mind.

Then I promoted it.

More than 300 people signed up to receive an email before I had written a single word.

And then the first Sunday came.

I sat in front of my laptop, looked at the empty screen, and started bleeding onto the keyboard.

Anger.

Love.

Questions.

Desire.

Confusion.

A lot of fucking confusion.

I didn't know where the story was going.

I just kept writing.

Every Sunday.

And somewhere along the way, something happened that I didn't expect.

The letters became the most consistent thing in my life — and a visual proof of how much I was changing, even through the writing itself.

The woman writing Letter 001 wasn't the same woman writing Letter 030.

I didn't plan that transformation.

I was watching it happen on the screen.

Not because I suddenly became disciplined.

Because someone was waiting for the next one.

Someone out there was counting on me to show up.

So I couldn't just stop.

And that made me wonder:

Maybe I'm not the only one.

Maybe we don't always need someone to tell us what is right or wrong.

Maybe we don't need another person standing at the finish line explaining how they figured it all out.

Maybe sometimes we just need someone willing to start.

Someone willing to walk into the unknown before knowing where it leads.

Someone walking beside us.

That's what Love Letters to Myself became.

Not advice.

Not coaching.

Not a woman who has figured it all out.

Just one woman writing her way through it.

One Sunday at a time.

And if you're somewhere in the middle of your own mess—

come walk with me.