It is not an emotional spa, nor a hashtag, nor the stuff of cheap self-help.It is like learning a new language after years of being mute to myself.Sometimes it sounds clumsy, sometimes it falters… yet still, I try.I write this barefaced, with a trembling voice, yet one that is true.Learning, day by day, that self-love is built anew—even as guilt and shame still visit me,my back bent beneath the weight of burdens that were never mine.It does not always come easily.Not every day.Some mornings, I cannot bear to look into the mirror.And others, I embrace myself with my own gaze—if only for five fleeting seconds.I desire to feel alive.Not functional.Not merely useful.Alive.And yes, I desire to love without fear.To decide with my hand upon my heart, and not upon the agenda.And today, I see: desire has no age.No form.No permission.It simply is.It beats.It breathes with me—with that stubborn hope that refuses to surrender.Hope does not shout.Nor shake me.Nor rescue me in a blaze.It simply stays.Small, persistent.A faint light at the end of the tunnel.A quiet voice that says, “one more day.”There are days I cannot find it.And yet—I breathe.And that itself is a form of hope.I do not know if tomorrow will be brighter.I have no promises, no guarantees.But I go on doing the very things that only one who hopes would do:I keep writing.I keep tending to myself.I keep dreaming of a lighter life.I keep believing that, despite all, it is worth going on.I do not ask for great miracles.I am content with an honest embrace.With a silence shared.With not having to feign strength at all times.Hope, in me, is no grand epic.It is ordinary.It is obstinate.It is a way of resisting without violence.And so, though at times I feel broken…I do not surrender.For hope, quiet yet steadfast, rests in the pocket of my soul.I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]