A Letter to the Woman I was 10 Years Ago

You won’t belive what’s ahead- and you won’t belive how strong you already are.

Oh hi there. Welcome.
This one’s for the version of me who didn’t yet know how wild, heartbreaking, and redemptive the next decade would be. A letter to the woman still holding it all together, not knowing what’s about to unravel — and bloom.

Dear J,

I see you — holding the weight of everything and everyone, pretending it’s fine, trying to make it all work.

You believe that love — the kind you gave your youth to — will be enough to carry you through.
And for a while, it will.
But soon, the shape of your love will start to shift.
And eventually, that high school sweetheart kind of love?
It will outgrow you.

And you will outgrow it too.

In just a few years, you’ll find yourself divorced.
Not because you failed — though you’ll carry that lie for a while — but because you were growing, and everything around you was splintering.

You’ll fall in love again — in what feels like a hurricane.
You’ll get a chance to carry new life into this world.
You’ll panic and pray and hope and rebuild.
And you’ll say yes to love again — not with naive eyes, but with a heart that knows what loss feels like and chooses anyway.

You’ll give birth just before a global pandemic.
Mother in a world locked down and strange.
Try to make a blended family feel whole.

You’ll walk down the aisle again.
New life. New love. New vows.

Not perfect. But honest.
Messy. Sacred. Real.

And then, just when you think you might be finding your rhythm —
you’ll leave Grayslake, the place you’ve always called home.
You’ll pack up your life and move to Georgia, far from all that’s familiar.

And in that strange land, with new zip codes and unfamiliar skies, you’ll begin the quiet, hard work of finding yourself again.

Not just as a wife.
Not just as a mother.
But as a woman — learning how to belong to herself and her story.

You’ll root your faith in the silence.
Not because it’s easy, but because it’s all you have.
You’ll grow stronger and softer at the same time.

And just when you think maybe — maybe — you’ve finally got a handle on it all…
you’ll lose the one constant you thought you’d always have.

Grams.

Your sunshine.
The soft place in every storm.
The one who held your hand through every version of your life.

She’ll be gone.

And it will break you open again.

You’ll grieve harder than you expect.
You’ll long for her in places you didn’t know she lived — in morning light, in quiet kitchens, in every bagel and every prayer.

And your faith — the one you thought you had finally rooted?
It’ll be shaken.

Not because you’ve lost it…
but because loss has a way of scraping you down to the roots.

But here’s the miracle:

The roots will hold.

Because they were planted deep — in grace, in grief, in growth, in quiet love that never lets go.

So hear me, sweet girl:
You will survive every unraveling.
You will rise after every heartbreak.
You will keep becoming — again and again and again.

Not because life gets easier, but because you become stronger, softer, and more whole than you ever thought possible.

You’ll carry all of this.
And you’ll still have joy.
Still have love.
Still have your Grams — in the way she shaped you. In the way you mother. In the quiet things you say when no one’s listening.

And somehow, that will be enough.

You are not lost.
You are not a failure.
You are not broken beyond repair.

You are growing.
You are grounded.
You are becoming.

With all my love,
J
The Bagel Shop — Rooted in resilience, shaped by grace.

What would you say to the woman you were 10 years ago? What have you walked through that shaped you most?