Dear Me,

I hope you’re reading this from a place that feels like yours. Not borrowed, not temporary, not conditional — but truly yours. A quiet house tucked away from the noise, where the walls hold your laughter and your silence equally. I hope there’s a library in that home, one you built with love and pride. I hope your queer books sit on open shelves, not hidden in drawers or disguised by dust jackets. I hope you never flinch when someone walks in and sees them. I hope you smile.

I hope you live free from the constant fear of being outed. That the shadows of secrecy no longer follow you from room to room. I hope the expectations that once weighed heavily — the ones shaped by family, culture, silence — have loosened their grip. I hope you breathe easier now. That you wake up each morning knowing you belong to yourself, not to anyone else’s version of who you should be.

I hope you have love. Not the kind you have to explain or defend, but the kind that feels like home. I hope you have a partner who knows the real you — the you behind the blog posts, the you who cried over fictional characters, the you who once whispered your truth into the pages of a book because it felt safer than saying it out loud. I hope you love openly. I hope you’re loved back just as loudly.

And if you’re not there yet — if you’re still on the way — I hope you’re proud of how far you’ve come. I hope you remember that every step, even the quiet ones, mattered.

With hope and tenderness,
Venice.

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