Along with writing love stories, this week I wrote a love letter.
It was a Frankenstein’s monster of a letter, full of thoughts and phrases that I have tucked away for thirteen months. I started writing it in January of 2020, hoping that I could express myself in a new and profound way. But I stalled while writing it. The message got away from me and fear took over. Our love was so new, so precious, and it needed to be protected at all costs. I couldn’t risk throwing around emotion, I couldn’t trust myself.
A year later, I wrote an ardent, honest, intimate letter. It was the love letter I had always wished I could write. Not because it was a writing achievement, but because it was an emotional achievement. I knew that somewhere out there was a love that would inspire me to write in a way that I couldn’t before—a love that made me feel safe enough to express my truest self.
So, what changed?
I could argue that the security of an engagement made me certain that a love letter would be well received. Perhaps, it’s an additional year of comfort, knowing that this love was the real deal and worth begin vulnerable for. What I actually think changed, however, is me. This love has been so steadfast and certain, and I finally had the consistency that I never knew love required.
Today I celebrate this love, and every other kind of love.