Hi Emma, just thinking of you and hoping you’re doing okay. No pressure to reply—just wanted to say hi and send a little care your way.

Anita

How are you, Lunar?

Anita

Thinking about you, Suzanne, hoping you are well. 🍓

Anita

Dear Tommy:

I understand.

Kindness can feel uncomfortable. Softness can feel risky. It can feel safer to carry guilt, regrets, and pressure inside—and to believe that you’ve done wrong and should forever suffer—because at least then, the pain makes sense. It doesn’t come from nowhere… it’s deserved.

I get it. You’re not wrong for needing that.

But if you ever want a quiet place to rest—no judgment, no sweetness overload—just a place to breathe and be soft, if only for a moment… that space still exists. No expectations. Just understanding.

Wishing you steadiness on your path,

—Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for your lovely messages—and for saying I looked beautiful in the photo! That means so much. You really do glow in yours, and I’m so glad my compliment landed well.

You asked how I knew that taking up space—both physically and emotionally—has been a struggle for you. I sensed it in the way you talked about yourself with Philip. You wrote things like, “I felt too plump, too manly, too much… I always thought women had to be dainty.”- Those words carry a deep belief that being fully yourself—your size, your feelings, your presence—might somehow be too much. And your height adds another layer, because it makes you visible, even when you don’t want to be. That’s not easy when part of you just wants to stay small, stay safe.

You also wrote, “I still wonder what would have been the biggest thing why he does not want me anymore.”- I think you’re probably right that the back-and-forth might have made it hard for him to feel emotionally steady. It likely became hard for him to trust the ground under his feet. That doesn’t mean your feelings weren’t valid—it just means both of you were carrying your own fears, and maybe he reached a point where he didn’t know how to keep holding on. And yes, if something were to change, it would have to come from him now.

As for what I do—I do work, but not for money. I volunteer on a farm where I help care for apple and pear trees, and I do my best to keep blackberry vines from taking over! There’s also a small community space at the farm where people gather to dance, listen to live music, and just be together. I help set up those events—and the photo you saw was taken during one of those dances last year. I was dancing indoors to a rock band, and I’m looking forward to dancing to the same band again this Saturday—this time outside, under the open sky.

Wishing you a peaceful day, Emma. You’re not too much—you’re just wonderfully and fully here. I’m glad we’re in touch.

With care, Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for your kind words and the warmth of your message. When I told you yesterday that you looked “so very, very pretty,” it was before I read the part of your letter where you shared what your mother once said—that you weren’t as pretty as your sister.

I find myself wondering how my compliment landed. Did it make you uncomfortable? Did it feel undeserved? I hope that, even just a little, it touched something tender in you that has longed to feel seen as beautiful.

As for your letter: you didn’t just speak to Philip—you allowed your whole self to be seen. You took honest, heartfelt responsibility for how things unfolded between you, without placing blame or making excuses. Instead, you turned inward, exploring your fears and patterns with compassion and clarity. That makes your voice feel incredibly real.

Your fear of abandonment, your instinct to pull away before being left, and your longing to be enough—all of that came through with such emotional truth. And the way you connected those present-day struggles to old family wounds? You did it with reflection, not self-pity. There’s grace in that.

More than just grieving the relationship, you seem to be mourning the version of yourself who wasn’t quite ready to receive love or believe she was worthy of it. That kind of grief runs deep—and gives the letter its quiet ache.

Though you speak of wishing for another chance, your tone never pressures. It’s tender, filled with longing, but also with acceptance. You voice your hope without using it to bargain or demand.

If this letter were ever to reach him (even if it never will), it wouldn’t cry, “Take me back!” It would whisper: I understand now. I’m sorry. Thank you. You mattered to me. I’ve changed because I knew you.

Yesterday, when I first read the beginning of your letter, a part of me wished you could send at least part of it to Philip. It was so emotionally beautiful, and I hoped it might touch something in him—maybe even spark a desire to get to know you again.

But today, I see more clearly why that might not be a good idea. When someone blocks you—especially after something romantic—it’s a strong signal, something like: I can’t handle any more emotional contact! It’s not just about stopping communication; it’s about protecting their own emotional space.

Sharing your vulnerability is a brave and powerful act—but it also asks the other person to receive it. And in this case, Philip has shown that he can’t—or won’t—do that right now.

Respecting his boundary is an important part of your healing, and it’s the right choice for both your well-being and his.

As to the little you shared about your childhood in this letter- in my next post.

Anita