#dear self

Since I was a child, I’ve been drawn to short poems such as haikus, sonnets, limericks, tankas, and even acrostics. Perhaps because they reveal how brevity, when shaped with care, can carry a depth that prose often struggles to hold; how a handful of words, precisely chosen, can distill emotion, thought, and experience into something both fleeting and enduring.

Just like this favorite poem of mine:

“𝘼 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙬,

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙬 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙥

𝘼 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚.”

(𝙃𝙖𝙞𝙠𝙪 𝙗𝙮: 𝙆𝙤𝙗𝙖𝙮𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞 𝙄𝙨𝙨𝙖)

How can something so brief bear such immense weight?

Three lines. A handful of words. And yet, an entire philosophy of existence compressed into silence and space.

At first encounter, it appears almost tender in its simplicity: “a world of dew.” Ephemeral, delicate, vanishing at the touch of light. But then, with quiet precision, the poem turns: “within every dewdrop / a world of struggle.” In that subtle shift, fragility is transfigured into depth; what seemed light becomes laden, what seemed fleeting becomes profound.

Is this not the very condition of human life?

We move past one another daily: exchanging smiles, laughter, fragments of conversation and yet, who among us is not carrying an unseen weight? Who among us is not engaged in silent negotiations with doubt, fear, and longing? As Friedrich Nietzsche reminds us, we so often encounter others without perceiving the invisible burdens they bear.

And perhaps that is why this poem feels less like something I read, yet more like something I inhabit.

Because lately, I have been living within that “dewdrop.”

The quiet tyranny of expectations: the demand to be good, to be excellent, to always arrive at my best. The persistent gaze of comparison, where no matter how far I go, I seem to fall short of some imagined standard.

And then, the future: vast, uncertain, and heavy with questions. I strive, I labor, I give what I can… and still, I am haunted by the thought: what if even my best is not enough?

I carry within me a dream: to become a lawyer, not merely in title, but in purpose. To stand with the poor, to speak where others are silenced, to pursue justice in a world where it often bends toward power. And yet, how does one sustain such a dream in the face of systems that appear fractured, where justice can feel selective, and the marginalized remain unheard?

There are nights: quiet, unguarded nights, when everything intensifies.

The doubts sharpen.

The fears surface.

And a single question lingers, persistent and unrelenting: Am I enough?

And still… it is precisely here that this haiku becomes most meaningful to me.

Because it does not deny the struggle. It articulates it!

It offers no illusion of ease, no false comfort of perfection. Instead, it affirms that within even the smallest existence lies an entire cosmos of effort, pain, hope, and endurance.

Like a dewdrop: “fragile,” yes, but never empty. Never insignificant. Always carrying more than it seems.

Perhaps this, too, is where beauty resides.

Not in the absence of hardship.

Not in the illusion of perfection.

But in the quiet persistence of the human spirit:

In our refusal to cease striving, hoping, and dreaming, even when burdened.

So if you find yourself weighed down by things you cannot easily name…

Perhaps you are not alone.

Perhaps you are, like me, a dewdrop. Holding within you a world of struggle, and still, somehow, reflecting meaning.

And perhaps… that, in itself, is already enough.

Go forth and be as multifaceted and awesome as your heart desires. Just be kind to yourself, okay?

Dear You,

I don’t say this enough, but I’m proud of you.

Not because you did everything right. Not because you didn’t fall apart. But because you kept going even when you didn’t know how.

There were days you didn’t want to get out of bed. Nights you stared at the ceiling wondering if it would ever get easier. Moments when you pretended to laugh so no one would hear your heartbreak.

And still— you showed up.

Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not in the way you thought you should. But in the way that mattered.

You loved. You lost. You cried and kept the door unlocked anyway.

You forgave people who didn’t ask for it. You stayed soft in places that begged for armor. You said goodbye to versions of yourself you had held like lifelines.

And still— you’re here.

Still kind. Still curious. Still becoming.

You didn’t bloom the loudest. But you rooted. You grew in the quiet. And that counts for everything.

So this is your permission to rest. To celebrate. To believe you’re allowed to be proud of the girl who held herself together with glitter and grief and grace.

You made it, love. Not without scars. Not without sorrow. But whole enough to begin again.

And I love you for that.