To those who feel unseen.

I see you—the one who says “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. I see the way you keep showing up when it would be easier to disappear, how you fold the laundry no one thanks you for, answer texts with a joke so no one worries, and carry stories you’re not ready to tell out loud. I notice your quiet; silence has weight, and you’ve been lifting it a long time. If you’re the strong one, you’re still human. If you’re the helper, you’re still allowed to need help. If you’re the mom who feels invisible, your love is showing up in ten thousand tiny places—bedtime whispers, packed lunches, glitter in the carpet—and it matters more than anyone says. If you’re the survivor, your courage doesn’t require an audience to be real; breathing through a trigger and finishing your shift is a victory worth naming. If you’re grieving something no one else met, your love still counts. Being seen won’t fix everything, but it loosens the knot enough to move. So today, let it land: drop your shoulders, put both feet on the ground, take one kind breath. Tell yourself the truth you offer everyone else: I see you.

I’m with you. You’re not alone. And if faith steadies you, whisper the simplest prayer—“God, don’t let me miss the people You’ve placed in front of me, including me.” Tomorrow might still be heavy, but you don’t have to carry it unnoticed.

You’re here, you’re seen, and one honest inch forward is still forward.