I Hope You Know

I hope that every sip of your coffee reminds you of the simple pleasure of being alive—

I hope there are mornings when you get to sip it slow,

and if you grab one on your way to work,

I hope the barista smiles and reminds you gently when you forget your order at the counter or stumble over the long, ridiculous names when you get to the speaker,

and I hope you laugh at yourself without hesitation.

I hope that when a good song plays, you continue to dance like nobody's watching,

so that you never forget who you were before the world told you to sit still.

I hope someone points out the way your face lights up when you talk about your family,

and when you laugh it off, I hope your laughter cracks open rooms.

That it breaks through silence and lets more light in.

And I hope you feel just as seen and safe in that moment as the people lucky enough to hear it.

I hope that balloons and silly party hats on your birthday continue to make you feel special.

I hope the wishes you make when you close your eyes—

whether over birthday candles or shooting stars—

aren’t whispered from a place of scarcity but from hope,

because you are deserving of every good thing.

I hope you understand,

that the love you didn’t receive wasn’t a reflection of your worth.

I hope that you find it in yourself to open up your heart again,

even if your hands tremble at the door,

and even when the echo of old wounds tells you to close it.

Because one day, someone will walk in with quiet certainty,

and you’ll realize that you aren’t broken,

that was only the shattered lens you were given to look through.

And in their presence, you’ll stop shrinking to fit the room,

because love like that makes space for every version of you.

I hope you know that your fear doesn’t make you unlovable.

Your wounds don’t make you weak.

And your anxieties, and traumas are not a burden.

You are capable of giving and receiving love, despite it all.

I hope you know, even if you don’t believe it yet,

that you are already enough.