It Is Time for Another Letter

A stillness that feels timeless

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There’s a peculiar stillness in writing letters—a moment suspended, not bound by time but by intention, as if the world itself seems softer, quieter, more manageable. I find myself drawn to this act today, perhaps because it feels like a declaration of presence. It is time for another letter—not just to reach outward but to ground myself in the here and now.

These past weeks haven’t been easy. My health has demanded more of me than I’d like, disrupting my rhythm and testing my patience. There were moments when even lifting my thoughts felt like too much. But amidst the heaviness, I am reminded that the simple act of pausing, of putting pen to paper or fingers to keys, can bring clarity, even gratitude.

Gratitude. The word feels ambitious some days. It’s not a denial of difficulty but rather an acknowledgment of what persists despite it. Like the light that filters through my curtains, soft and golden, as if to say, I see you; I’m still here. Or the voices of loved ones checking in, offering solace without expectation. Even the smallest things—a blooming flower in the garden, the birds who decide to pay me a visit, saying, hello, stranger—these moments of quiet magic are present, waiting to be noticed.

I’ve learned, especially in this season, that gratitude doesn’t require grandeur. It isn’t about ignoring pain or pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s about finding the spaces where grace resides, no matter how fleeting or subtle. There’s power in acknowledging what is good, even when life feels hard.

Writing this letter is my way of choosing gratitude. It’s not polished or perfect; it’s a raw reflection of where I am right now. But I think there’s beauty in that—in writing not because I have answers but because I want to remain open to them.

So, here is my letter, imperfect as it may be. It’s a promise to myself and to anyone reading this that, even in challenging times, I will seek the light. I will notice it. And I will honor it by continuing to write, to hope, to find meaning in the in-between spaces.

Thank you for reading and for being a part of this journey. It’s time for another letter—perhaps it always will be—and I’m grateful you’re here to receive it.

Life is a gift.

Xo,

Thaíssa

P.S. Inspired by Thanksgiving—a holiday my country doesn’t celebrate but one I still find fascinating. The act of pausing to reflect, gather, and give thanks is a tradition that resonates deeply, even from afar.

P.P.S. The title was borrowed from Richard Rohr’s letter today.