It's not like any other Decembers. Not one that is wistful. Not sitting in the balcony reading Rilke’s letters. Not holding up my hand to the sunset lavender sky while listening to Brightside by The Lumineers. It's this December when I knelt on my brother's loft bed and raised my arms to touch the ceiling and felt it as icy as my hands were, a reminder of how everything leaks and passes through. I reached outwards when I ought to have held my chest so as to keep it from stinging. To touch is to relieve is what I always say. I've harbored enough trauma from the past eleven months by unraveling a grotesque part of my past I’ve grown to keep hidden that I did not even dare expect this month to be any different. In this story, to touch is to deceive. To touch is to conceive a grief so irreversible it leaks, through time it heaves. A week has passed and there isn't any Christmas lights in any of our windows. My newly laundered blanket is perhaps as white as the mental facilities I've seen in sci-fi movies and I'm saddened by how it's probably the brightest thing I've seen in months. It doesn't feel like the end of a year, but it does feel like something's ending. Something beautiful always happens in December and I have always been attuned to it, but it is this dim December and I have no idea where I'm headed.

I recently started reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb. In the first chapter, Lori says, "We can't have change without loss, which is why so often people say they want change but nonetheless stay exactly the same." I marveled at that idea of how change is always tied to loss. I'm never one for easily letting things go. Fear of the butterfly effect for every decision that has to be made often leaves us with paralysis and leads us to stagnation. Who knows where the typhoon will fall, and what casualty will follow? But I knew something must change. I just didn't know exactly what I had to lose.

During one of the dim days, when the idea of death seemed to have found a home in my thoughts, I told my sister, "If I were to die tomorrow, I don't want my last thought to be a realization that I just spent the last one-third of my day in a job I'm unhappy with." I said it with a smile as I sounded whiny and impractical in my ears, but I knew my heart. Every word was meant. In here it says, "Isn't that how life is supposed to be lived? Do only the things you can do with love, and let go of the rest." Gratitude combined with convincing myself that I can love my profession was how I managed to stay for almost three years, but forcing a connection only felt like a betrayal of the soul. And I’m all about love and connection. I'm all about crazy ideas, reading and learning the ways of people and of the world, writing about the books I read, music and film, my walks and trips, car conversations and dinner fights and family nights. Writing about writing, anything.

I thought I only wanted to write, but taking a look back to when it all sparked, it has always been a need first before it became wanted. Though words sometimes don't come naturally and I end up having only a few incoherent phrases, the desperation to write always does. Whether picking up a pen and paper or grabbing my phone to type in my notes or heading to a Word software on my laptop, writing has always been done in some sort of urgency— as if it's the only string tied to my being sane. I don't always want to write. There were the dimmest of days when I wanted for nothing. But even then, I knew the words shall come later. Writing has become an integral part of me that I feel I am not myself without my words, and not writing when I need it is the worst kind of mess.

Here's what I fear: that I will be one of those regretful people Mary Oliver talked about when she said, "The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time." I’m terrified of losing that zeal, of turning my barbaric yawp into occasional silent screams, of answering the call only a few seconds past the last ring. I learned what I had to lose when I realized what I couldn’t afford losing: my heart, as an aftermath of losing my words in the process of building a secured life out of a predetermined career. I guess I learned this seven years ago, when I wrote:

“Shall I die fulfilled, or spend my dying years merely sitting alone as I fathom how I ended up settling for a life I’ve never passionately dreamed?”

It never left me since.

With all that happened this year, a different theme I’ll save for perhaps another newsletter, it taught me above all that there is some kind of strength within me that I barely recognized. I began to acknowledge this after my therapist told me that I confronted probably the most challenging part of healing in a matter of one week what others would have accomplished in at least a month. I was dubious at first, thinking this might be a template she uses in all her patients when encouragement is warranted, but then I remembered a friend back in high school telling me that behind my vulnerability lies an inner strength that he found empowering. I guess there is some kind of strength within us that we should begin to recognize, with or without someone else's affirmations. If there is anything, this strength led me to believe that I can always start over whenever I want to, anew in whatever ways I decide on taking.

To begin this change, I have to end my fears. This means taking courage to face losing what gave me stability so I can build myself around that life I passionately dreamed. My inner strength tells me I can gradually regain that stability over time, with consistency and patience. The only difference is that it'll now come from the work I always loved doing. There's no worry if there's no hurry. Slow has always been my best pace, but I'm choosing to move slower if need be, if that's what it takes to give my words the power and time it needs. I figured now is the best time to answer the call regardless of not knowing what's on the other end of the line. Nobody knows what's on the other end of the line and ugly things happen unexpectedly from time to time, as they did this year, and so the least I can do is to make my present as livable as it could be. To do that is what leads me here.

Angel’s Letters will be a space of deep love, as it is now, writing this tiny one. Every beginning to middle of the month, I will send you a tiny love letter. This could be a themed story, an essay of a brain-picked idea I choose to mold as I sift through the seams of life, a stream of consciousness during witching hours, or whatever it is that influenced me at the time. At the end of each month, I will release an “Of the Month” Exhibit where I'll be sharing poems, films, art, music, or anything that I find most remarkably moving on that specific month. However, this comes with a warning that the dim days might certainly come at some point. These are the days when I am most uninspired and the Exhibit may be unlikely to develop. The themed newsletters may not always be this long, or this short. But in better months, you may even find a surprise letter to make up for the bad ones or just because I feel like doing so. It’s still a wonder how Angel’s Letters will grow as it is always free to evolve in ways it finds most transformative, but this is what I can think of at this moment.

I have been inconsistent as a writer, doubting myself if I ever was one or if I ever would be, but these are the patterns that also need to end. With this ending in mind, this letter is created. I write, therefore I am. I figured this would be an accountability of some sort, to have a sustainable foothold so as not to fall by the wayside now that I have given myself time to cultivate my writing. And if you find it interesting enough to be a willing reader on the receiving end of this letter, I’d be much delighted to share it with you.

Angel’s Letters is labored with love and hope. Every letter is cared for. If you found or think may find something like a touch of light or some comfort here, and would be so kind as to support my works, there is a gift link in the About section where you can be a monthly patron or a one-time supporter (paid subscriptions are not yet available in my country). If it’s not your thing, that’s okay with me and you can still read all of my future newsletters for free. If you don’t want to miss it, you can hit the subscribe button below.

You are also welcome to save and share your most loved parts, and tag me @ardentlyangel. You can also let me know what you think and feel in the comments, or send me an email at angelgt.substack@gmail.com.

Thank you for reading this far! I hope this letter resonated with you.

Here’s to calm changes and hopeful beginnings.

Ardently,

Angel