For the Women Who Hold a Lot, Feel Deeply, and Still Show Up

A love letter to you.

Dear Sojourner,

I see you.

Holding so much.

Loving so deeply.

Digging deep just to keep showing up.

You question whether you’re doing enough.

You wonder if maybe you’re too much.

You feel stretched thin—spacious in some ways, frayed in others.

You want—no, need—more support, yet it feels unclear how or where to find it.

You long to feel more present, more steady, more centered—more you—on a regular basis.

And even with all of that, you still rise each morning, willing yourself to try again.

To love better.

To do more.

To hold the boat steady.

To slow down instead of react.

To pause instead of rage.

To reflect instead of assume.

You carry all that you’ve learned, all that you’ve lived, all that you intuitively know—and you walk forward, somehow, with all of it.

There is exhaustion—of course there is.

There is joy—sometimes fleeting, sometimes it stays awhile.

There is a craving for deeper connection, but a quiet truth that this season might not offer the spaciousness you need for it.

And maybe that longing for connection isn’t just about others.

Maybe it’s your soul tugging at you, whispering,

Come home to yourself for a bit. I miss you.

There’s the vision you once had—and the way it cracked under the weight of reality.

And now, a new vision is quietly emerging. One you didn’t expect, but are starting to trust. One you might even love.

You can already feel yourself grieving the passing of this wild, sacred season—a season that broke you open and, paradoxically, brought you back to yourself.

Life. Death. Life again.

The endless, ordinary magic of it all.

You feel so much, all the time.

You’re learning how to sit with those feelings—how to let them move through you without clinging to the story they came wrapped in.

You’re touching into the tender spaces inside you that are still integrating, still becoming.

You’re scared sometimes.

But you move forward anyway.

Just when you start to find your footing, the landscape shifts again.

A new season begins.

Back to the drawing board.

Learning again—same lessons, new form.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

And still, somehow…

You smile. Softly.

You know. Quietly.

You cry. Because.

I see you.

I am you.

And you are not alone.

With love, always—

A fellow traveler