change is scary but so is staying the same.

 This is February — the doorway of a new month, another string of days I can only hope will be gentler. And I refuse to spend them unraveling like I did before. I will not be a guest in my own grief again, nor will I let the shadows stretch their arms and pull me under. I have memorized the taste of sorrow, carried the weight of an ache so familiar it almost felt like home — but I will not make a home out of pain anymore.

I built my peace with unsteady hands, stitched myself back together thread by fragile thread. I did not survive the storm just to let it drown me again.

For the longest time, I thought if I kept replaying the past, with me knowing of what will happen; making the same choices, holding on to the same people, maybe — just maybe — the ending would be different. But life doesn’t work that way. You cannot read a book twice and expect a different ending. You cannot revisit the same story, make the same choices, and hope for a different result.

Maybe the lesson isn’t in rewriting the past, but in understanding it — learning why it unraveled the way it did, why certain doors had to close, why certain versions of me had to be left behind. Maybe it’s not about chasing a new ending, but deciding what I’ll do differently in the chapters I have yet to write.

There’s a strange grief in moving on, a mourning for the person I used to be, for the life I once imagined. For so long, I stood still, watching life rush past me, afraid that leaving meant losing. But now, I am here. I am moving. I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, but at least I’m no longer rooted in a place that was slowly killing me. There’s a relief in that — a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding, an exhale that tastes like freedom.

And yet, nostalgia is cruel. It sneaks in like an old song, a familiar ache, a ghost from the past whispering what if? I think of the places I once called home, the people I swore would stay, the memories that still sting like fresh wounds. But I remind myself: I don’t belong there anymore. I don’t belong to the pain I outgrew. I don’t belong to the past that no longer fits me.

Adulthood is nothing like I imagined. No one warns you about the weight of it, how the world outside your comfort zone feels vast, uncertain, unforgiving. It forces you into a maze you never asked to enter, strips away the illusions you once held, and makes you question everything you thought you knew. Life after the recklessness of youth — the loud music, the late-night drives, the friendships that felt unbreakable — introduces a reality that stings. One day, you wake up and realize that growing up isn’t just about getting older — it’s about carrying the weight of everything you’ve lost along the way.

I don’t want change. But it finds me, always, when I least expect it. On a Tuesday, it seeps into my soul. No matter how I try to hide from it, it always finds me.

But here’s what I know now: I am not lost. I am simply becoming. I am growing. My path will take me exactly where I need to go, to places where I’m not just tolerated, but wanted. I no longer have to beg for love, for belonging, for space. I will not shrink myself to fit into places I’ve outgrown. I will not chase after things that have already let me go. The past will always be there, but I no longer stand in its shadow.

Change is terrifying, but staying the same is even worse. And if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the fear of the unknown is nothing compared to the pain of staying where you don’t belong.

May we never return to the darkness we fought so fiercely to break free from. May we never go back to the dark places we fought so hard to escape. May we always remember the strength it took to walk away. And may we hold onto the belief that something better lies ahead — that all the struggles we’ve faced will eventually be met with reward.

This February, I’m wishing for brighter days — not just for myself, but for all of us who’ve persevered, who’ve struggled, who’ve stayed strong even when it felt unbearable. I’m hoping for warmth to follow the cold, for light to pierce the darkness, for peace to come after the storm. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I pray that this month, and the ones to come, will be gentler, kinder.

Written by: letters from rosie