A Love Letter to the Ones Who Are Still Here

This is for the ones who woke up this morning not because they wanted to, but because their body did it for them. For the ones who opened their eyes and let out that first sigh of the day, even though it hurt to do so. For the ones who didn’t want to be here… but are anyway.

I see you. Because I am you.

Life hasn’t exactly been kind. I’ve lived through a body that seems to make its own rules, seizures, MS, all of it. I’ve been stuck in places that didn’t feel safe, both physically and emotionally. I’ve sat in houses that felt more like traps, damp creeping up the walls, no money to get out, no real support. I’ve been in relationships that chipped away at who I was. I’ve tried to rebuild, more than once, just to have it all fall apart again.

There were days I wanted to call my therapist but couldn’t afford to. Days when even getting dressed felt impossible. Nights when the silence was deafening, and all I could do was drive, nowhere in particular, just to feel something. Anything.

But I’m still here. And so are you.

Maybe you're 35 and wondering where your life went. Your mates seem to have it all: careers, mortgages, partners who actually love them, and you’re just... trying to get by. Maybe you feel like you’ve missed the boat. That you're too late, too broken, too far behind.

But you’re not.

You’re still here. And that means something.

You might not be thriving. You might not be ticking boxes or smashing goals. But you are surviving. And that, in itself, is bloody powerful. Because there are so many days when it would be easier not to. And yet, here you are. Reading this. Breathing. Hoping, even if it’s just a little.

You are not a failure for being tired. For struggling. For not having it all figured out. You’re human. And more importantly, you're still trying.

Some days will feel like wins, others, not so much. You might cry in the car, or get angry at nothing, or forget what you were saying halfway through a sentence. But you’re still here. That matters.

There’s a quiet kind of bravery in showing up to a world that hasn’t always been kind to you. In doing the dishes, walking the dog, or just making it to bedtime. These small things, the ordinary things, are often the most powerful acts of resistance.

And if no one’s said it to you recently: I’m proud of you. Not in a patronising way, but in a genuine, “I know how hard this is” kind of way. You’ve made it through things that would flatten other people, and you still have a soft heart. That’s rare. That’s beautiful.

You are not your productivity. You are not your past. You are not broken beyond repair. You're a work in progress, like the rest of us, but you're still here. Still standing, even if just barely.

There are people who love you, even if you don’t know them yet. There are strangers who’ve read your words and felt less alone. There are moments ahead that will make you glad you stayed. They might not be tomorrow. But they’re coming.

So this is my love letter to us, the ones who are still here. Still waking up, still pushing through, still searching for a little bit of peace. You matter. You always did.

And if you ever forget that, come back and read this again. Let it be your reminder. Because some days, all we need is to be told: "You’re not alone, and you never were."