Dear You,

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I’ve spent half of my life studying the human mind, but nothing in my professional life prepared me for the death of the man I couldn’t live without.
 

When he died, the world split open.

Every truth I’d lived by cracked like glass.

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What followed was a hunger to find others who had survived the unsurvivable — and to read every voice that had dared to write from grief’s depths.

This space was born there. 

In the dark. 

From a woman I had not yet become, and a heart that had nowhere left to bleed.

 

He once made me promise that I would only ever write my own truth — never for the approving gaze of others.
And he promised me that he would never leave me.

 

Neither of us have broken our promise.

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I’m glad you’re here — welcome. 

I'll put the kettle on. 

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Warmly,

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N.J. Wilde