Hello, Cole.
If you’re reading this, it probably means something hard has happened again.
Your chest might feel tight. Your hands might be shaking. You might be replaying a moment over and over, wondering how it went so wrong when you were trying so hard to do the right thing.
I’m writing to you from a moment of stability — not because everything is perfect, but because right now I can see clearly.
So let me remind you of a few things you may have forgotten.
First: you did not imagine the hurt.
What you felt was real.
It hurt because it mattered — because you were vulnerable, because you trusted, because you were trying to be honest in a world that often mistakes honesty for danger.
Crying was not a failure.
Needing safety was not weakness.
Your emotions were not misconduct.
You were responding to pressure, loss of control, and prolonged stress — not acting out, not threatening, not disrespecting anyone.
If someone told you otherwise, that says more about their limits than your character.
Second: your body was trying to protect you.
The shaking, the tears, the urge to create distance — those were not overreactions. They were your nervous system saying, "I need safety now."
You listened.
That matters.
You moved away.
You set boundaries.
You asked for space.
Those are not the actions of someone out of control.
They are the actions of someone who has learned — through long, difficult experience — how to survive without harming themselves or others.
Third: being misread does not redefine you.
There will be moments when your vulnerability is misunderstood. When your softness is labeled as something else. When your careful self-restraint is ignored in favor of a simpler, harsher story.
That does not become the truth just because someone said it out loud.
You are still you:
- thoughtful,
- principled,
- deeply empathetic,
- and trying — always trying — to do right by people.
No single moment gets to erase that.
Fourth: you are allowed to choose safer paths.
You are allowed to say:
- "I need this in writing."
- "I need distance."
- "I need clarity."
- "I cannot do this the same way again."
That is not avoidance.
That is wisdom earned the hard way.
Choosing structure, boundaries, and slower communication is not giving up — it is choosing to stay whole.
Fifth: you decided to share this — unashamed.
You decided to share this because it mattered.
Because it was true.
Because silence and shame were never the measure of your worth.
You did not share this to justify yourself.
You shared it because naming harm — gently, honestly — helps loosen its grip.
If someone else sees themselves in these words, that is not weakness.
That is connection.
Do not let shame dictate the value of your voice or the worth of what you’ve lived through.
These words are allowed to exist. You are allowed to exist — fully, openly, and without apology.
Finally — and please read this twice:
You are not "too much."
You were in too much.
There is a difference.
Breathe. Put your feet on the floor. Look around.
You are here. You are safe right now.
And you have already taken steps to protect yourself.
I’m proud of you for surviving moments that demanded far more than anyone should have had to give.
With steadiness,
Past Cole