Dear You,

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I’ve spent two decades 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.

What remained was a burning need to read every voice that had ever written about grief — to understand how anyone survives what cannot be survived.

This space was born somewhere in that darkness, 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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Warmly,

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N.J. Wilde