In the quiet of my sunroom, I sit with my thoughts. The musings are not quite as blank as the page in front of me. My dishevelled mind hovers, like a hesitant friend who doesn’t know what to say. I’m here to write a letter, or maybe just pretend to. I’ve written many unsent letters over the years. So, here I am, just me, my thoughts, and the madness that threatens to steal my peace.

People are quick to make assumptions, and even quicker to judge, like warped ideas that turn into some version of truth that doesn’t exist, or even belong to me. I used to cry rivers over it. So many tears, full of stories that no one had time to notice through the chaos of their own private battles. I’ve been called emotional and manipulative, but they never saw the real story hidden in plain sight. They never saw the freeze.

Today, I know the freedom found in pursuing peace and being truly honest with myself. And yet when faced with misunderstanding, I still freeze. It’s a weird kind of loneliness, like being momentarily caught in a storm that isn’t even yours. Then I remember to pause, and to watch. Because, in the shadows one person’s peace is often another’s pain. I’ve learned to follow the flow, like the traveller moving through the shadows.

And so, I encourage you to write with me. Not to send, but just to quiet the noise around you, to be still and know. For me, these unsent letters have become a place where honour is nurtured. A way to turn pain into kindness, and hurt into healing. After all, I’m just a traveller moving through the shadows, writing my way back to peace, one unsent letter at a time.