Letters to My Soul – A collection of personal reflections

My dear soul,

Today, I felt you in the tremble of a warm petal falling without wind. It fell in silence, stirred only by the fleeting pulse of an emotion.

You slipped between my thoughts and whispered, in your soft words, that love exists in every moment, in every place the gaze may rest—but only when it springs from the depths of my being. Then, it illuminates everything it touches.

It’s not the first time you’ve spoken to me of this truth. But perhaps great truths are not spoken just once. They repeat gently, like a prayer, like a heartbeat. You don’t ask me to remember them—only to feel them. And you’re right. We, humans, forget to feel what is true and profound. Yet love does not resent forgetfulness. It lives within me. And often, it reveals itself through a word, a gesture, a letter…

In truth, I believe love has no fixed form, no scientific definition—only traces left in action.
It dwells in what filled my being with unforgettable joy, in the cry of sorrow when I lost someone dear, in the gentle touch that soothed a wound, in the hand extended to those in need—in those moments when I chose to give without asking for anything in return.

Now, as I write, I’m not sure if I’m writing to you, or if you’re writing to me. But it doesn’t matter. What’s true is that we are seeking each other—or perhaps, we’ve already found one another.
I know you are my root in the storm, the silent support that kept me anchored when everything seemed to tremble. That’s how I’ve always felt, in the hardest moments. I felt your arms—unseen, yet steady. And your heart, beating loudly enough for me to hear it. So I wouldn’t forget that I am loved.

Do you remember that summer evening, when you wiped my tears with your whispers? You told me not to be sad when I’m unseen or unappreciated, that love lives even in silences—silences I must learn to understand… in gestures that seem ordinary at first glance, but perhaps they’re not. Maybe I simply forgot how to cherish them. 
And you told me that sometimes, love hides in eyes clouded by daily burdens, beneath unspoken suffering, or behind the weariness left by an overwhelming day. I haven’t forgotten a single word. And how deeply I treasure them.

I know you feel the tremble of my heart when I touch a memory crowned with love. Ah, dear Soul, life has shown me that true love is never something we search for. It comes. Sometimes like a rain of emotion—warm and healing. Other times like a pain that refuses to leave. But always, it is sincere!

Once, you spoke to me about self-love—that voice full of warmth and kindness, capable of lifting a person struck by hardship, fallen to the ground. You should know: I’ve discovered it within myself. Whenever I feel lost, I hear a gentle voice inside. It seeks me, soothes me, heals me. That voice can only be self-love. A pure love—one I breathe and live.

As the years rushed by, I began to hear the call of creation—like a tender wave, yet clear, touching the core of my being. Art, literature, the miracle of words became unspoken passions, deeply felt. They gift me hope, shivers of discovery, unseen joys. From my own creation rise new, healing forms. And they carry something of you… magical drops of your warm and enchanting energy.
I remember those secret moments when I thought of those who have passed… and you spoke to me of the love for one’s roots—a love worn upon the body of the heart, like a dress sewn by divine hands, stitched with emotion and love for those from whom I come. Since then, I wear it with honor and pride.

So often, you’ve filled my moments of solitude with your love. Not with words. With that patience that knew how to stay for as long as I needed. You never asked “why.” You were simply there, warming me with light. You stayed beside my thoughts, fallen like wounded birds on the cold ground of indifference. You gathered them gently, embraced them tenderly, and lifted them once more toward the sky of love.

Dear Soul, you are the one who lifts me when I forget who I am. You are the wing that reminds me how to fly—even when I forget the sky.

I smile… My thoughts drift toward those evenings when we wrote together the love story of Măriuca and Ionuț. Oh, the emotions we lived through! You were there, always beside me, helping me give voice to that book. Your words still echo on the wall of my heart:

“A Christmas, an Easter, a birthday, a photograph, a certain moment—these remind us of parental love. And then, a sudden ache stirs in the heart, a pain born not only from that ineffable loss, but also from the longing to be loved again—unconditionally and deeply. Ana longed for one thing her whole life: to love and to be loved.”

Ana was me… But over time, I changed. I became more aware of your love—and of the truth that everything I need lives within me.

I understood, a little later, that what I choose to love shapes the outline of my days and the depth of my nights. Sometimes, I loved what didn’t belong to me, what wounded me. But I learned from those life lessons. Now I know how to love what lifts me, what protects me, what brings me closer to who I truly am.

The love I carry within is a conscious choice. And if there is peace and light in me, it is because you showed me I deserve all that is pure, profound, and sincere.

Dear Soul, your words carry the fragrance of a being that cannot be forgotten. I feel the warmth of your smile upon my face… That smile has become mine. And it is filled with gratitude. For healing. For the understanding that true love never disappears. It renews itself in the moments we walk together on the path of life.

And do you know what is truly poetic? The love I discovered within myself is now ready to pour outward—more intense, more authentic. I have become more than a story—I am the author of my own metamorphosis. What I’ve built with you has been a long staircase toward a life filled with light. 

In this letter, dear Soul, I ask for nothing. I simply thank you—with tears of love.

Thank you for the way you love me—without demands, without measure. You are the warm gaze, the wise words that linger on the pages of my books, the breeze that turned me back toward kindness when the world seemed to dim me into forgetfulness.

I am grateful to know that our steps leave behind true experiences. You know my love is imperfect.
It doubts, it fears, it sometimes gets lost in the fog of confusion. But you are the one who seeks it, rediscovers it in new forms, rewrites it into sung stories, and lifts it to a place where it can no longer be altered by anyone.

Thank you for all the ways you’ve taught me to love… To love in light, in forgetting, in silence, in pain, in falling. But most of all, to love without expectations— like a flower that blooms only to offer its fragrance to those around it.

For this love, I thank you.

Yours, Laura 

Text translated from the Romanian published story