I recently encouraged someone to write, journal.

“But how” they asked.

I journal through letter often.

Not because I plan to send them—but because something sacred happens when I write as if someone is listening.

Sometimes I write to my younger self, offering her the words I wish she’d heard.

Sometimes I write to God when I don’t know what else to do but surrender.

And sometimes, I write to the future—someone I haven’t met yet, or a version of me I’m still becoming.

This practice has become one of the most healing tools in my journey.

It slows my thoughts. Softens my inner dialogue.

It gives shape to emotions that once felt too big to hold.

And most importantly—it reminds me that healing doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes, it whispers.

You don’t have to send a letter to let it change you.

You don’t even have to finish it.

But the simple act of writing—honestly, intentionally, soulfully—can shift something inside.

The three letters below are not the only ones I’ve written, but they are sacred examples of how this practice has helped me reclaim my truth, anchor my worth, and come home to myself.

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✉️ Dear Younger Me,

I see you—

trying so hard to be enough, to do enough, to hold it all together.

You gave away pieces of yourself just to feel chosen.

You confused comfort with clarity, survival with safety, love with obligation.

You didn’t know yet that just being you was already worthy.

I want you to know…

You don’t have to prove your worth anymore.

You don’t have to shrink to fit inside someone else’s story.

You are allowed to change your mind.

You are allowed to let go.

The roles you played, the plans you clung to, the people you tried to save—

you can release them now with love.

They were stepping stones, not your home.

You are becoming a woman grounded in truth,

who speaks her needs, honors her energy, and walks away from what no longer aligns—

not out of anger, but from deep inner peace.

You now say “no” without guilt.

You eat to heal, not to numb.

You no longer chase love—you are love.

You no longer wait to be chosen—you choose yourself.

Daily. Fiercely. Softly. Without apology.

You’ve learned that divine timing is real,

and that when you sit still enough,

your soul will show you the way.

You don’t perform peace anymore—you embody it.

You’ve become the safe place you once searched for.

You are the miracle you once prayed for.

And the best part?

You’re still unfolding.

And that, my love, is holy.

Always with you,

The You Who Came Home

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🙏 A Prayer to God

Dear God,

Thank You for never giving up on me.

Even when I doubted my worth, You held it firm.

Even when I lost my way, You stayed near.

Thank You for the quiet unraveling—

for every plan You gently let fall apart

so I could find the path You truly designed for me.

Thank You for walking me through the letting go,

for teaching me that peace is not something I perform,

but something I carry when I trust You more than I fear change.

You’ve helped me shed the masks, the people-pleasing, the proving.

You’ve shown me how to stand in my worth,

not with pride, but with purpose.

I am no longer rushing to be chosen—because I know I am Yours.

I no longer chase love—because I see now that love begins with You.

Make me a vessel of truth, gentleness, and wisdom.

Keep me open, but not empty.

Soft, but not shaken.

Grounded, but still growing.

Prepare me, Lord—for the love I am now ready to receive.

The kind that mirrors You.

And until then, let me keep choosing myself the way You always have.

In Your holy name,

Amen.

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💌 A Letter to My Future Husband

To the one I will walk beside,

I don’t know the day we’ll meet fully in the physical—

but I already feel you in the quiet places of my soul.

I’ve spent years learning how to love without losing myself.

And now I know… I was never meant to be rescued—

I was meant to rise.

So when you find me, know this:

I will not come to you empty.

I will come whole.

I will come barefoot in my truth,

strong in my peace,

and soft where it matters most.

I’ve stopped searching for perfect.

Now I seek present—

a man who shows up, not just for the good,

but for the growth.

I pray you are rooted in God,

anchored in purpose,

and unafraid to be seen.

Not just the polished parts—but the soul beneath the skin.

I will not ask you to complete me.

I’ve already come home to myself.

But I welcome you to walk beside me.

To match my pace, to share the weight,

to laugh deeply and hold gently.

You are not the prize at the end of my healing.

You are the mirror of it—a reflection of how far I’ve come.

And I promise to love you not from emptiness,

but from overflow.

I’m not waiting to begin my life.

But I do look forward to meeting you there—

where peace meets partnership

and purpose meets presence.

Until then,

I’ll be here, becoming the kind of love I long to receive.

With grace,

Casandra

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🌿 Final Reflection

These letters are not just words. They’re mirrors.

They’re how I sort through pain, realign with truth, and offer compassion to every version of myself—past, present, and becoming.

This practice has taught me that sometimes healing isn’t about fixing anything—it’s about witnessing it.

It’s about showing up to the page, letting your heart speak, and remembering:

You are not lost. You are in motion.

You are still unfolding.

And that, my love, is holy.

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💬 Quote

“The letters you write now might just become the life you live later.”

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✍🏼 Journal Prompt

If you could write a letter to one version of yourself today—who would it be?

Your younger self? Your future self? A version of you that still needs closure?

Write without editing.

Speak to her with grace.

Let her know she’s safe now.

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🔁 Weekly Challenge

Write one unsent letter this week:

• To your past self

• To God

• To someone you’re letting go of

• Or to the love you’re still becoming ready for

Let the act of writing be enough.

Let the healing happen between the lines.

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Always,

Casandra