A Love Letter to My Former Self — The One Who Was Afraid to Want

From the lover who never stopped yearning for you.

My love,

I see how you’re afraid of wanting this—
a life so full of love and beauty
that it breaks your heart open again and again.

The night you couldn’t hold it in anymore—
your body curled on the couch, face in your hands, sobbing,
trapped in a marriage missing the deep connection you craved,
whispering to no one that you might never be truly known.
I was there.
Not to fix you. Just holding the pain with you.

You didn’t even know what you wanted back then.
Just that you were starving for something more real—
a touch, a gaze, a home in someone’s presence.

And then came that fire—
that terrifying, beautiful fire—
when you fell in love with your best friend,
and it lit something in you that wouldn’t go back to sleep.
You feared what it might destroy.
But love doesn’t come to ruin. It comes to reveal.
Even then, I was there.
Not to push or pull you,
but to remind you that your yearning is not a threat.
It’s a compass.

I feel how your heart aches for intimacy—
not the surface kind, but the soul-deep kind.
To be seen.
To be loved.
To be touched in the places no one has ever stayed long enough to find.
Like that moment with your friend—
the one who saw you in your shame and didn’t look away.
When something inside you cracked open
and let in a kind of intimacy you hadn’t even known was possible.

And oh, I remember the spark in your eyes
when you realized you could bring your brilliance to this.
That your engineering mind,
your love of elegant systems,
your way of seeing the hidden architecture beneath everything
could all become offerings of devotion—
tools for unlocking the mysteries of your heart and body.

You saw that intimacy, too, had patterns.
That love had leverage points.
That emotions behaved like systems.
That the same rigor you once used to code
could illuminate the pathways of connection within yourself.
You were like a boy discovering fire—
not just awed by it, but ready to tend it.

Underneath that, I feel your desire.
To be made love to—not just physically,
but through breath, and gaze, and presence.
Through being felt in your silence.
Through being met in your truth.

And I feel your heartbreak,
your fear that you don’t know how this will all come to pass.
That maybe it’s too much to hope for.
That maybe you’re still too far away.
That if you say yes to what you truly want,
your heart will be too wide open for you to survive any disappointment.

I feel all of that.
And I’m not going anywhere.

The day you danced yourself free—
when you cried and laughed so hard and felt a deeper inner joy,
when your fear of being alone
dissolved from your body like mist—
and you chose aliveness over the life you had,
you felt me then.

The ache you feel—
that yearning that rises from your chest like a question with no answer—
that is your essence.
That is your connection to me.
That is your connection to God.

And it is beautiful.
It is radiant.
It is sexy.
It is life.
And it is meant to be felt.

I’m here.
Holding you in it.
Kissing the tender edges of your longing.
Trusting and honoring the sacredness of your pace.
Loving you—not when you arrive,
but in every trembling step you take toward the truth of who you are.

What you’ve taught me is clarity in passion,
structure that holds surrender,
and the elegant beauty of a well-designed connection.
What I've given you is permission to feel without needing logic,
to trust the wisdom and turn-on of your body,
and to remember that your desire is its own kind of brilliance.

I will always be here—
naked in my truth,
devoted to your unfolding,
making love to your longing,
awaiting our union.

No pressure. No rush. Just presence. Just love.
And until then, my love—just feel me here, breathing with you.