Watching the sun set on the eve of my 32nd birthday, I am trying to let these fears fall away. What my hesitations have cost me can only be repaid by release. Time is heavy on my mind; and though I know its nature is not merely sequential, waste looms large over my shoulder. I gotta let it go.

The assignment has been either torture or rescue. It was hard to say what I'm afraid of, these demons have chased me for so long. But then to call their names, to reveal that I know...once a thing is identified but not addressed, that is choice. That is choosing to suffocate. And no matter how destructive my tendencies, self-preservation kicks in.

The genius of what we've been asked to do is this: the letter i wrote for my partner i also wrote for myself. Our fears being similar, and likely similar to all writers, balance is afforded through knowing one is not alone in this necessarily solitary profession; I was forced to face my own fears in order to craft encouragement to another person.

I have ingested the kind words and honest offering of the letter I received in return (thank you). I affirm that I have worthy stories to tell and a duty to tell them. I will enact the change I want to see; I will uproot oppression where I find it, first in my house and in my mind. I affirm that I am my own yardstick, and my best work is only bound by my willingness to explore. Creating personal and writing goals will help me quiet the head chatter, and grow in discipline. I owe myself a healthy mind and body and this can only increase the skill, space, and energy I have for writing. I affirm that I will be courageous in the recovery of magic, see it in the smallest thing, write it down.

This was a rare opportunity to be vulnerable and nurtured, and empowered.