Dear Nineteen-Year-Old Me,
Look at how far you have come.
You are no longer that girl who hates her body. You are no
longer that girl walking around Brooklyn barefoot after a night of parties. You
are no longer given worth solely by the people around you.
Darling,
You are now free.
You are loved.
You have identity.
Nineteen-year-old me, I think about you a lot. I think about
how I wish I could have told you so many things… how I wish I could hold you
when you had no one there to direct your eyes to your Purpose.
But amidst the wishing, there is knowing--knowing that God
is using your story, knowing that though there was pain in the night… joy came.
Dear Jesus,
Thank you for always knowing me.
Thank you for always being there with me, even in the purge.
Thank you for using my mistakes to bring you most glory.
