This is a message for the person who’s been dealing with chronic pain as just another part of their life. This is to say: of course you’re still an incredible human being. If you have someone in your life who inspires you by how they live and love through their pain, pass this letter on to them. It’s an “I see you” kind of thing.

It’s not too late to be the person you needed when you were younger. It’s never a wrong time to give yourself what you need. If what you need is forgiveness for past wrongs or acceptance of who you are today or appreciation for how far you’ve come, this open letter is yours to read. It's what I wish my younger self knew.

This poem you're about to read is what inspired me to say: greet every experience like a chance or a teacher, if not a friend. Even sorrow has its light, beautiful things grow out of the worst times. Just ask anyone who's known loss, and who's taken that pain and used it for their own betterment, or in service to others.

Every now and then, you need someone to tell you that they believe in you. You need to know you're in someone's thoughts, in their prayers and in their heart. It's the knowledge that you're not alone in your struggles and in your hopes, and sometimes that's all you need to keep going.

I came across an article the other week that made me stop. Since I started writing openly five years ago, I've found a lot of incredible advice online on how to deal with grief. The advice I read in this article — taken from a Reddit thread — was spot on and beautifully put. I knew you'd understand & appreciate it too.

Your inner child is that innermost part of you, the "original" you, that still sees and responds to the world as an innocent child does. It doesn't really matter if you're familiar with this term or not, though — this is an open letter to my inner child that might be everything you didn't even know you needed to hear.

I never thought I'd say "I don't drink," but this past Sunday marked six months since I've had a sip of alcohol. The most surprising part of it all? I'm happier sober. And I don't say that lightly. I've dealt with depression most of my life. But after my brother committed suicide, I made it a priority to take care of myself.

It could be a word. The way someone phrases what you could never put words to. A memory. Something you see in the sky, in the street, in someone's eyes. And just that one thing, in that moment, can spark change in your heart. It could mean the difference between who you've been, and who you're becoming. It could mean hope instead of fear, joy where there was pain—light in the darkness. It could mean everything.

Death has a way of making you come face-to-face with your life. No words can capture the entirety of how loss shapes us. But until then, here are six truths I’ve learned through my own personal experiences of love and loss, grief and growth, survival and surrender, and 5 years of writing on the topic.

Okay, sometimes it’s a salt bath and a piece of chocolate. But real self-care isn’t set in stone. It changes as you change. It’s changing your focus, habits and priorities when what used to work for you doesn’t work anymore. And what you need right now, it’s not always pretty or popular.