Dear Me,

I know how hard it is to keep walking when the path ahead is foggy, when your feet feel heavy with waiting, and your heart aches with quiet wondering. But today, something happened. A dear friend confided in you. He’s been offered a door out. A new job, a better place, maybe even peace of mind. A windfall, really.

And he said, “I still can’t decide whether to leave.”

You wanted to throw tiramisu in his face. You wanted to shake him and say, “Are you out of your mind?” Because to you, it was so obvious: Go. Run. Be free.

But then something else happened. Something quieter.

You saw yourself in him. In his hesitation. In his tug-of-war between safety and possibility. And you realized—not everyone leaps when the door opens. Some stand there staring, aching, rationalizing. Some stay behind because the familiar, no matter how painful, feels like home.

And now you’re asking something brave:
“When my door opens… will I leap?”

You don’t know the answer yet. But you do know this: you’ve changed. You are not who you were. You have unclenched your fists. You have learned to sit with the unknown. You have converted—yes, willingly—to the quiet faith that all is well. That the universe is not blind to your waiting. That your longing is not wasted.

This friend confiding in you today? That is a miracle. Not just his story, but the timing. The way it stirred your own longing. The way it cracked open a conversation between you and your deeper self.

So cling to that.

Cling to the truth that unthinkable change is possible. That doors open. That even if others freeze in front of theirs, you are preparing—slowly, tenderly—for your leap.

And when your moment comes, you’ll recognize it.

You’ll hear the whisper:
“Now. Trust.”

And even if your legs are shaking, you’ll step forward.
You’ll leap.

Until then—rest in the knowing that your time will come.
That faith is not a desperate move, but a quiet readiness.

Keep your heart open. Your door is being carved.

With love and fierce belief,
Me

Karin Sabrina