When Hope feels heavy

💌 Letter to myself:

Dear Me,

I know you're tired.

Not just tired in your bones, but tired in your soul —of hoping, of holding on, of hearing people tell you to "stay positive," "keep fighting," or “you’re such a warrior,” as if that hasn’t been your full-time job for years now.

But here’s the thing: if I were a warrior, this is not a battle I would have chosen. And no matter how hard I try, it’s not one I’m going to win. So please —stop handing me swords I never asked for.

I know the numbers barely moved this time. From 26.7 to 26.4.

It’s so little. And yet, it means something, or better said, so much.

It means the chemo is working.

It means the radiation did its part.

It means that, somehow, something is finally managing to slow down the tumors.

It means you’re still here.

But I also know —a part of you was already preparing to go.

Not out of giving up, but out of exhaustion.

You were trying to make peace with the idea of an ending, because uncertainty is its own kind of suffering.

And now you’re told: Not yet.

And what people don’t understand is that even good news can hurt when you’re this worn out. When your days are stitched together with nausea, scans, pain, fear, and waiting, so much waiting.

So yes, it’s okay to feel confused. It’s okay not to jump with joy. It’s okay if the hope feels heavy right now.

But let me remind you of this: You still see the beauty of life in sunlight.

There’s still joy and laughter in your days —real, loud, and sometimes ridiculous laughter.

You still find reasons to stay, even if they’re small.

And those reasons? They’re yours.

And they are enough.

You have walked through fire again and again.

You have kept breathing even when it felt meaningless.

And you are allowed to pause, to ache, to be angry and unsure.

You don’t owe anyone clarity, or cheerfulness, or answers.

Just be.

That’s enough.

You’re enough.

From Me to You, With all my love 💕🌿