Chapter 9 Letter to Myself
~Felicity~
I squinted, staring into the almost blinding ocean.
The waves crashed in patterns that looked too beautiful to be real.
I sat in the lounge chair off to the side of the wide balcony.
My legs were pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around my shins, chin resting on my knees.
Escaping from my life had felt necessary, but my time here had felt different than I'd imagined.
I'd come here for freedom—for space.
Maybe naive of me, but I didn't expect the grief to follow me here.
It pressed in like a second skin, even as I tried to peel it away with ocean views and room service mimosas.
One moment I'd feel weightless, almost free—then suddenly crushed by what I'd lost over the years.
Part of me wanted to call him. Part of me wanted to throw my phone into the ocean.
There's something about turning forty that makes you take stock.
I picked up the hotel stationery, half as a distraction, half on instinct. This was no Hilton notepad. This was thick, creamy, embossed stationery with the hotel's name in faint gold. I slid my fingers over the embossed logo, and I swear it was like real gold. Couldn't be, though—right?
Looking for a pen, I found one tucked in the leather folder next to the room service menu.
The weight of it surprised me—solid metal that pressed into my palm with unexpected gravity, as though even this small hotel amenity not only understood the heaviness I carried inside, but also knew how to help me let it out.
I went back to my seat on the balcony, and I started writing.
I didn’t write to Caden. It was a letter to my sister. Or to friends. Not to anyone in my life.
To me.
This would be a letter to myself—or the woman I hope I still am in ten years. Or maybe the woman I'll finally become.
Letter to Myself, July 2025 – Miami
Dear Me—the me of 2035 (as long as the world is still turning...)
If you're reading this, and I hope you are reading it, I pray you're somewhere warm again. Maybe your hair is a little longer. Maybe it’s not (though please don’t have given in and cut it like your mother did once she passed the age of 45).
Maybe you finally learned to stop apologizing for taking up space in this world—for being you.
I'm writing this from the balcony of my hotel suite where I’ve watched countless turquoise waves crash against the white sand so far below. The humidity and heat cover me like a blanket and even this paper dampens from it.
There’s a breeze blowing through, carrying the scent of coconut sunscreen mingling with the citrus from my untouched mimosa. Somewhere down the beach, I can hear Latin music beating a rhythm making my foot tap.
I'm alone. It's my fortieth birthday weekend, and I left home with nothing but a letter to Caden. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I just booked a flight, the hotel suite, and flew away.
Think back to this time and remember what it felt like—the need to belong to yourself for the first time in a long time.
You know what happened this week. There's no way you've forgotten. You probably still flinch when you think of the purse—maybe Macy even still has it. I imagine you haven't forgotten how quietly your heart cracked when you realized he gave it away without a thought to you or your feelings.
Maybe by now you've forgiven him. Or maybe not—maybe it was the last straw for you two. I don't know—only you do.
But this letter isn't about the purse. Or even about him.
This is about you.
You've been through so much. Sometimes I wonder how you’ve carried it all and still managed to smile at the sunrise.
You and Maliyah lost your parents far too young—two girls left alone in their twenties to make a way in life.
Mom with her warm heart, who would sing "la-la-love you" like a lullaby and hold you close when you were hurting.
Dad with his booming voice and Sunday breakfasts—always quick with an off-key song.
They taught you both that love was something given, not earned. They taught you that your strength came from within and from above. Somewhere along the line, you forgot that, though—working to earn love and affection.
Maybe by now you've finally remembered you were always enough. Always.
Then the infertility. That broke something in you that, as of today, you've been unable to glue back together—the pieces are sometimes unrecognizable. It felt like a betrayal—by your own body. The nights you cried after every test. Every appointment. Every month that passed.
All you've ever dreamed of was being a mother, being able to share the joy and love your own mother had surrounded you with. You’ve envisioned a life for yourself surrounded by yours and Caden’s children. And after years, that vision still remains untouchable.
But you need to know you are not defined by the accumulation of failed IVF attempts.
And you are not less than just because you haven't been able to have a baby—yet.
I know you've tried to stand beside and with Macy, to be something soft and steady for her, but she has her own mom and you’ve always had to be careful with that relationship.
So again, you've stood outside of yourself—still unseen and still separate. Still waiting. Still hoping.
And then—there's Caden.
He loved you once. Fully, completely. He still does—at least, he says he does.
I remember how he used to look at you—like you were the answer to every question he hadn't figured out how to ask yet.
He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.
And for a while, you let yourself believe maybe this was it.
That after everything, this love would hold.
But love, like anything, needs tending. And eventually, he forgot. Or maybe he just got tired. Maybe you did too. The long meetings, the silent dinners, the anniversaries pushed aside for flights and fires. The promises you stopped believing.
Emotionally, it has all been too much. So, you let silence speak words you never said. You rode that silence into anger. And you didn’t try. Neither of you really tried. You could have spoken up before now, but you didn't. He could have fought before now, but he didn’t.
Now here you are. Forty. Alone in Miami. Eating overpriced breakfast and writing a letter to a woman who you hope no longer remembers the pain of what this felt like, but instead looks back on it as a catalyst for the strength she built.
Looking out at the endless ocean, I see possibility like nothing I've seen before. As impromptu as this trip may have been, my heart knows it will also be a balm to the soul. I chose me, and that has to count for something.
So what do I want to tell you?
You are not broken.
You are not forgotten.
You are not less just because someone else forgot how to love you loudly.
Your softness is a gift. Your fire is your own. Your worth was never dependent on anyone else remembering it. The trials of life you experienced are the building blocks for the strong woman you have become.
I hope you have found a way to settle your heart by now. That you've found it in that heart to forgive him. Not because he deserves it, but because you do. Because bitterness only eats the one holding onto it.
I hope you let yourself love again—whether that love is poured into others or allowed to flow back inside.
And I hope you still walk barefoot in the sand, that you smile at sunrises, ride rollercoasters, read books by the dozens, and live life without apology.
I hope you found a way to settle your heart around giving life and that you have somehow found a way to make it all happen for you.
I hope that in writing this letter, we are encouraged to do something different.
Because it's time to remember—it is never too late. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
You made it through.
And you're not done yet.
With everything I have and with all of my love,
~Felicity