Dearest tender hearted reader,

Let’s not dance around it, you waited. Not because you were naive, not because you were desperate, but because you believed. You believed in the man you saw flickering beneath the surface, the man who might one day grow into the partner you deserved. You held onto hope, that fragile, trembling thing, like it was a lifeline in the dark.

You gave him the space to become the best version of himself, silently praying that all the potential you spotted wasn’t just a mirage but something real, something worth the wait.

And while you waited, something unbearable happened: he chose someone else.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

Darling, you said “I’m fine,” and I nearly burst out laughing. Not because it was funny, but because I’ve said it so many times myself that I could win an Oscar for the performance. You know the one, smiling with teeth clenched like a Jane Austen heroine suppressing a full-scale emotional meltdown in a drawing room. Graceful. Polite. Painfully repressed.

The truth? I wasn’t fine. And I’m guessing, lovely, neither are you.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

You are her wildest unspoken prayer.

Not the one she dared to say aloud, but the one she sighed into the ironing board. The one tucked beneath her polite smiles and raised eyebrows at Sunday lunch. You’re her undoing and her redemption, all at once.

You may have noticed that some things you do leave her blinking in surprised silence. The way you speak directly, unflinchingly. The way you say “no” without qualifying it with ten reasons and a nervous laugh. The fact you walk away from half-hearted men, half-baked friendships, and half-price integrity. You do not bargain with your worth, and she admires it, even when she doesn’t always know what to do with it.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

If you’ve ever politely declined a second date because he didn’t pray before eating, but still stared at him in disbelief when he misquoted Romans, this one’s yours. If you’ve ever dressed for brunch like you were heading to the boardroom and the throne room, just to sit at a table of women who made you feel like an endangered species, you’re not alone. And if you’ve ever felt like you had to dim down your discernment for the world, or zip up your realness for the church, then I know exactly the tightrope you're walking.

I’ve walked it in 90mm heels and a Ralph Lauren Purple Label coat, tailored within an inch of heaven, thank you very much.

The world has no idea what to do with a woman like you.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

I know you're tired of hearing, “You did the right thing.”

Because while it's true, undeniably, unshakably true, it doesn't numb the sting of loss. Not every loss is tragic, but every ending carries weight. Even when you walk away from the wrong thing, you're still walking away from something that once felt familiar, comforting, intoxicating in its own way.

You left. And some nights, you miss it.

That’s a quiet grief people don’t really talk about.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

You know the type, the one who texts first, arrives early, remembers every birthday, and never forgets the small details. The one who shows up, every time, even when it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or downright exhausting. Yes, you, the perennial bridesmaid of friendship, the relentless anchor in family chaos, the loyal partner in romance, often standing alone on the sidelines when everyone else forgets the dress code.

I see you.

I’ve been you.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

There’s a certain kind of woman who knows how to power-walk through the revolving doors of a glass building with her lip gloss intact, her inbox on fire, and her soul still somehow in one piece.

I want to start by saying, I see you. No, really. I see you, the way only another woman who’s cried in a disabled loo between back-to-back meetings could. The woman who tells herself she’s fine, she’s just “fixing her mascara,” while her heart takes one too many hits from being overlooked in rooms she works twice as hard to earn a seat in.

Dearest tender hearted reader,

You didn’t mean to.

You didn’t set out to become that kind of woman, the one who poured so much of herself into him that she barely noticed she was running dry. But it happened quietly. Slowly. And then all at once.

You told yourself it was love. You meant it to be love. And in many ways, it was.

It’s just that somewhere along the way, you stopped being loved back.