You won’t answer my calls. You’ve blocked me from your Instagram and Facebook, and you’re probably deleting my emails. But I hope you’ll get this letter.
We’ve been here countless times before – the arguments, crisis talks, tears, and promises we’ll do better next time. But this time it’s different. Now I understand what they mean when they say: it’s not you, it’s me.
I loved you from the moment I met you. I saw your unrivalled beauty, your warmth, your comforting and relentlessly giving nature. I thought I saw things no one else could, when I raved about you to my friends and family; like I was the only one who had access to your breathtaking secrets.
I was head over heels, cartwheeling-through-the-fields, truly and madly intoxicated by you. Who wouldn’t be? I think of all the happy times we explored your undulating mountains and endless seas; when we basked in your sun, soothed by your sweet breeze. Remember that night under the stars…? I hoped these precious moments would never end. I thought it was my duty to save them.
For years I thought you needed me to speak on your behalf. I wasn’t sure if you were afraid, or didn’t know how, or just couldn’t face it. It’s embarrassing to admit it now, but I didn’t even ask you. I just assumed I knew what was best. Why didn’t you say anything?
I guess that’s the point, isn’t it. You were saying something – you were screaming from the rooftops most days. I just wasn’t listening.
I didn’t understand back then, that there is another side to you. I didn’t know about your strength, your energy, and your wild anger which burns so fiercely that you are capable of turning on your axis. You have all of life within you, but I have only seen a fraction of it.
The reason I’m writing this letter is because I’ve realised something. It isn’t you who needs saving, it’s me.
A friend once told me that true love makes you more than the sum of your parts. I get it now. Love doesn’t fold you in, it opens you out; and in doing so we both get to achieve our dreams.
The worst thing I ever did was focus on what made you vulnerable, rather than what made you strong. I was insecure and frightened of my own weaknesses, and I felt better about myself when I got to play at being a hero. It makes me cringe to think about it now, like I was some spandex-clad caped crusader snatching you back from the brink of oblivion.
You don’t need a hero. And you don’t need me. But I need you – we all need you – more than ever before.
In those undulating mountains and bottomless seas lies the potential for us to feed, clothe and nurture ourselves, without limit. Your warm sun and sweet breezes can give us the energy to learn, work and thrive over a lifetime.
There is beauty in what you give us, but just as importantly there is resilience and adaptation and opportunity. I’m going to come right out and say it: I’d like us to start over, as equals, so we can walk towards the future together.
I bumped into some of your old friends the other day. They said you were doing well, that you’re working with colours again (you always were a natural with those sunsets) and getting into mindfulness with a group that totally digs your vibe.
Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime and talk it through? The sustainably-sourced kind that I know you really like. You know where to get me.
PS Have you seen the shots they’re getting of you up on the International Space Station? Really loving your Europe at night, you should totally use it as your new Insta profile. It doesn’t even need a filter.
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