I hope these words reach you gently, like soft waves finding the shoreline after a long journey — neither demanding nor imposing, but arriving with purpose and tenderness.
There’s been something on my heart that I’ve wanted to say — not in the rushed tones of daily chatter or between the silences of meals and routines, but in this quiet space where I can be fully with you, where my words can wrap themselves around you like the ocean’s arms around the moon, constant and full of pull.
I want to talk to you about you. About your mental health, about love, and about the moment we’re in — where you’re standing at the edge, wondering if it’s okay to let go of the rhythm that has kept you moving forward, even as your soul whispers that you are tired.
Let me begin by saying this, as plainly and as honestly as I can: I support your decision to take a break from your career. Not just as your partner, but as someone who deeply loves the person you are — and the person you are becoming.
I know it isn’t easy.
I’ve seen the internal wrestling — the late-night sighs, the tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your voice when you talk about stopping work. The fear of stepping away from a job that has been both a source of identity and survival. And I understand. Truly, I do.
Because this world wasn’t built to tell you it’s okay to stop.
It only praises the endless swimming — swimming until your arms give out, swimming even when the current pulls you under. But you are not meant to drown in your own brilliance, nor are you meant to trade your wellbeing for a paycheque.
There’s this idea we’ve been sold, that to pause is to fail, to stop earning is to lose value, to rest is to fall behind. But what if I told you this moment — this break you’re considering — is not the edge of your life, but the tide pulling back so you can see the reef underneath? The part of you that has always been there but hasn’t had the sunlight or space to grow?
Burnout isn’t just exhaustion — it’s erosion. Slowly, silently, it wears away the parts of you that laugh easily, that see beauty in chaos, that dream freely. I’ve watched it begin to chip at you, even when you smiled through it. And loving you means I cannot be silent in the face of that erosion.
I want you to imagine something with me: the ocean. You and I, we’ve often sat near it, letting its sound speak the words we couldn’t. It’s a force so vast, it humbles even the tallest cliffs. But even the ocean retreats from the shore — it pulls back not to disappear, but to gather strength before the next wave. Love, this is your tide pulling back.
Yes, the fear is real. The fear of not having a regular income is real.
That voice that tells you, “What if I lose my place?” or “What if I become economically powerless?” It’s not something to silence or shame — it’s something to hold with tenderness. You’ve worked so hard to build your independence, your dignity, your right to say “I have enough.” That fear lives in the bones of so many women — especially those like you, who have had to carve out their worth in rooms that didn’t always welcome them.
But I also want to remind you: power is not always in a paycheque. Power is in knowing yourself so well that you choose rest when the world demands performance. It’s in setting a boundary and saying: “I will not give away the last of myself just to be seen.”
Your worth is not conditional upon your productivity. You don’t have to earn your place in this life through suffering. You are already enough.
And then there’s the other fear — the one about the unknown days ahead. What will they look like? Will you lose direction? Will you become lost in the vastness of your own pause?
I won’t pretend I have all the answers. But I do know this: the future is not something you must control — it’s something you must walk into, step by step, moment by moment. And you don’t have to walk into it alone.
Sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures or poetic confessions. Sometimes it’s standing still with someone while they are afraid. It’s holding the silence without filling it. It’s saying: “I believe in you, even when you are unsure of yourself.”
And so, I stand here with you.
Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding space for you to become. I want you to wake up without that knot in your chest. I want you to look at a day not with dread, but with curiosity. I want you to find your centre again—not for me, not for anyone else — but for you.
Self-growth requires time, patience, and, most of all, stillness.
And if taking a break is what gives you that stillness, then it is not a weakness—it is the deepest kind of strength. Because it takes courage to step off a ship in motion and trust that you will find your own way across the sea.
I don’t love you because of what you do. I love you because of who you are — because of the way your eyes soften when you speak with kindness, because of the strength you show when no one is watching, because of your insistence to live truthfully, even when it hurts.
Let this break be your harbour. A place to mend, to dream, to create, to question. A sanctuary, not a void.
And when you feel that fear again — as you inevitably will — remember this: even the strongest waves retreat, only to return stronger. You are allowed to step back. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to become.
And I will be here. As your partner, as your witness, as someone who believes your peace is worth protecting — even from the workplace, even from your own doubts.
With all the love that lives in me,
Rallu
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