Nobody warns you that healing is not a destination, but a doorway. I see the faint, silvery scars that crisscross that beautiful, tender muscle, each one a story of a time you offered it up, only to have it returned bruised and battered. You learned, didn’t you? You learned to build walls, brick by painful brick, until your heart was a fortress, safe and sound. But darling, a fortress can also be a prison. The same walls that keep the pain out also keep the love out. And you, my love, were made for love. So how do we begin to dismantle this fortress, this beautiful, tragic monument to your survival? How do we learn to trust again, not with the reckless abandon of youth, but with the quiet, steady wisdom of a warrior who has known battle? In my years of working in this territory, I've seen that trust is not a switch you flip. It’s a garden you tend. You don’t go from a barren patch of earth to a lush paradise overnight. You start with a single seed. You plant it in the soil of your own self-worth, water it with the courage of your convictions, and