Dear Thursday You,By the time you read this, Tuesday's tearswill seem like someone else's storm.I know you can't see past the hospital ceiling,the cast, the crutches, the careful wayeveryone says "you're so brave"when what you feel is broken.
But listen—I'm writing from a placewhere you learned to dance again.Different than before, yes. The limpbecomes rhythm. The scar becomes story.You'll discover strength isn't aboutnot falling. It's about making fallinglook like flying to everyone who needsto believe that's possible.
Wednesday You makes lists: Things I Can't Do.Friday You burns them. Saturday Youbuilds paper airplanes from the ashes,launches them from the windowyou once thought about jumping from.By Sunday, you're teaching someone elseto fold their pain into wings.
The thing about becoming stronger—it's not about growing armor.It's about growing windows where the walls were,doors where the dead ends seemed certain.Your body, mind, spirit—they're learninga new language, and "broken" translatesto "breaking open," which translatesto "light gets in," which translates to"wait, just wait, just wait and see."
Right now you're writing the first sentenceof the tale you'll tell laughingat dinner parties, the one that starts"You won't believe what I survived..."and ends with everyone leaning in,amazed at this ordinary magicof continuing to become.
Trust me. Trust Thursday.Trust the slow sunrise of healing.—Sunday You
P.S. That thing you're afraid to hope for? It happens.Just not the way you're picturing.Better. Different. Yours.