Letter 1: When the War Wakes Me Up
There are some mornings when I open my eyes and I already know the war has started. It doesn’t wait for me to brush my teeth or stretch or say good morning to the sun. No. Some mornings, it’s already breathing in my chest. Like it never slept. Like it’s been sitting on my pillow all night long, whispering fear into my dreams.
I was ten when I first met this war. My grandfather died, and something cracked in me. It wasn’t just grief it was like a silence moved into my body and started echoing louder than sound. No one told me that grief could grow arms and legs and start shaking you awake before the sun comes up. No one told me it could feel like drowning... in a room full of air.
And from that moment on, my mornings changed. I’d wake up, heart racing, like I was running from something even before I got out of bed. That’s what anxiety does it doesn’t wait. It barges in like it owns your body. Like you’re just renting space from it.
I’d try to talk about it sometimes, but people would say, “You’re too young to be stressed, “or “You just need to pray more, “or “You’ll grow out of it.”
But I didn’t, I grew with it.
I wore it to school. I wore it in church. I wore it at the dinner table, when everyone was laughing and I was quiet, counting my breaths like prayers.
This is the war I wear.
In this letter-these words are my way of saying:
If you wake up some mornings already fighting, you’re not alone. You’re not dramatic. You’re not weak. You’re not broken.
You’re at war.
And you’re still waking up.
That’s strength too.
