For so long, the future terrified me.
Every plan I once made was built with you in it, and when you left, all those plans crumbled into dust. I told myself not to hope, not to dream, because hope felt dangerous — and dreams felt impossible.

But living in fear is not living at all.
And slowly, step by step, I am learning to trust again.

Trust does not arrive as a grand revelation.
It shows up quietly, like a whisper:
“Maybe tomorrow will be kinder.”
“Maybe I am stronger than I thought.”
“Maybe the future still has room for me.”

I begin to make small promises to myself:
That I will wake up and open the window to the light.
That I will try, even if I fail.
That I will keep walking, even if the path feels uncertain.

Trusting the future again does not mean I erase the past.
It means I carry it with me, not as an anchor, but as a compass. What I lost has shaped me, but it does not define where I go from here.

The future is no longer a threat.
It is a canvas.
And I get to choose the colors I paint on it.

So today, I take a breath.
I lift my eyes.
And I say, quietly but firmly: I trust the future again.

Always and Forever

💬 Have you ever been afraid to trust the future after loss? Share your truth in the comments — your courage may be the hope someone else needs today.