A Letter to Lance

Lance,

You remind me of a kid I used to know. His heart was bigger than his circumstances, but his stature loomed higher than his community’s sense of security and his resilience outweighed the rules that were never modeled for him.

He had so much life on top of him.

He lived with me for awhile— several months in fact— after his stepmom stabbed him. He slept in our spare room, or sometimes on the couch. I dropped him off at school in the mornings and picked him up for dance sometimes. He cried on my shoulder in the car one night. Sometimes he felt like he just didn’t have a chance. He was the first person to teach me about street credit. He showed up for his friends when they were in trouble (which was fairly often).

AND

He showed up for me every day. He taught the world that hard and soft weren’t the only options—
To bend without breaking
To absorb what was needed, then release, without becoming saturated
To stand firm, but know you are capable of moving—
That’s the realest. That’s true strength.

I know your stories are different. I know you are not him. But you pull on my heart strings in much the same way, remind me how deep and beautiful and tough and complex we ALL are.

I hope there are fifty people showing you how special you are— how important your story is, how much you matter, and how much better the world is with you in it.

But at the very least, know that my life is more hopeful —more love-full— because you are part of it.

Love,

Emmy

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