and they won’t.
Tonight, I cried. Not because I’m weak. Not because I’ve given up. But because I’ve carried so much — silently — and I still show up with love in my hands.
It’s strange, how I can be surrounded by people yet feel like I have no safe person. No one I can fully collapse into without guarding parts of myself. I’ve learned I have to be limited — measured — in how much I share, how deeply I trust, how loudly I hurt. Not because I want to hide, but because I’ve had to protect the very parts of me that make me real.
Still, I choose to believe there’s purpose in this path. That my patience and my perseverance aren’t being wasted. That even when no one sees the full weight of what I carry — God does. And maybe that’s why I’ve been gifted this quiet resilience. This sacred ability to hold space for others even when I have no space being held for me.
I don’t move through life trying to prove I’m better than anyone. I just want to be good. To live gently. To love without conditions. To influence without forcing. And I think I have — because I’m starting to see people reflect back the values I’ve modeled: consistency, softness, non-transactional love, showing up without demanding anything in return.
It’s honoring… but also bittersweet.
I’ve given without titles. Loved without needing to be announced. Held others through their struggles while never unloading my own. And even though I’ve struggled — silently, sleeplessly, sick, and stretched thin — I’m still standing.
I am the source of my own survival.
And I’m not using that source unless I absolutely have to.
That restraint? That quiet? That’s my power.
People don’t know if this is my final rock bottom — and they won’t. Because I’ve learned that mystery is a form of protection. People are curious how I keep going. How I still have faith. How I haven’t collapsed under the weight. And the truth is: I just keep moving. I take the risk of silence, the risk of patience, the risk of trusting the slow work. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’m unsure. Even when it hurts.
Because I know good things are coming.
Because I know being a good person does pay off — even if it’s delayed.
I know this process is long. I know it’s slow. I know it’s not easy. But it’s mine. And I’m proud of myself for how I’ve carried it.
Thank you, God, for keeping me grounded. For keeping my voice steady when my heart is heavy. For reminding me that I don’t need to chase, perform, or prove. I just need to trust — that everything I’ve given in love, in patience, in silence — is being returned in ways I can’t yet see.
I have faith.
And I will always have faith.
—
Love,
Amy
Dear Diary, 