I struggle for words lately. I’ve been struggling for words for a while. So I drown myself in music, in between choruses and rhythm and the continuous tapping of my foot that makes the days bearable. I drown myself in others’ words. In poems, in articles that I stumble upon, in blog posts that hit too close to home.
Tonight, I was searching for a needle and thread (what up, domesticity) and came across a letter my mom wrote me when I graduated high school. All of our families were instructed to write us letters that we got to open on our senior retreat, and I am so thankful for that cheesy, cheesy tradition (or what I hope has become a tradition, anyway).
I’ve carried my mom’s letter from seven years ago through multiple moves and across several state lines but I haven’t re-read it again until tonight. I vaguely remembered some of her words, but reading it again at this point in my life was almost more emotional than it was that day that I sat in a field in East Texas and felt my heart swell.
An excerpt:
“… I’m proudest of the fact that you have the same kind and generous spirit that you were born with… So, my dear and beautiful child, I can only say: I truly hope that you keep doing what you’re doing, for all of your long and interesting life. Know that you are growing up in a way that makes me know you will be just fine. You can handle anything life throws at you. To say I am proud is an understatement. To know you is a joy!”
My mom is awesome.
Sometimes I don’t have the words, but I’m trying to be easy on myself. There is such a comfort in collapsing into the tried and true thoughts of others who are so much more eloquent, who tell me that it will be okay.


































