Dear Jenn,
There’s a strange paradox in being a creator. It begins with an ache, a private conversation between your soul and the work you pour it into. For me, that work is writing. It’s where I place my truest self. And yet, there is a shyness, a deep-seated hesitation to share it, born from the quiet fear of being met with indifference.
I find myself in this strange position: financially stretched to my limits, yet faithfully paying a monthly fee to keep a domain name active—a small digital plot of land for my words to live on. I send links out into the void of social media, wondering if anyone clicks, if anyone cares, if anyone sees the pieces of my soul I offer up. It’s a lonely endeavor, this act of creation in a world that feels too busy to notice.
But this letter, this feeling, isn’t for the void. It’s for you.
I wanted to share this space with you because you, individually, are one of the most uniquely empathetic and compassionate people I have ever known. There is a safety in your presence, a feeling I’ve recognized since I was a child. I’m not afraid to reach out when I think of you, because I know that you understand what it is to feel everything so deeply. I know how that can hurt sometimes, how it can make you feel as though it’s you against the world. It’s written in my bones to move in a way that lets you see how truly recognized you are.
When I look back, my memory of you is a tapestry of family. You are my father’s cousin and my mother’s friend. You are the one who loved my Nana Gig, and in that, I saw a reflection of my own adoration for her. As a child, I could observe that you were someone to feel safe with. I think it’s because you are not afraid of your own heart. You are a person who might cry at the drop of a hat, and in that vulnerability, I have always seen immense strength. How could I not feel safe with someone who is brave enough to let their feelings show?
Those feelings, Jenn, are your superpower. Your emotion moves the earth within you and for those you love. I have no doubt that for your children, you would move mountains. It fills me with so much pride to think that when you remember the Stevens family, you think of my Grampy Dave, then perhaps my father, and then maybe, there I am, standing proudly to show you how much I appreciate the support you’ve always shown for all of us. That includes my mom, and Chad, and the deep, real affection that Cindy always felt for you—a love so palpable that it sustains itself still, through me.
It’s funny, the things that stick with us. I can so clearly picture you washing your hair in the kitchen sink on more occasions than I can count on one hand. It’s a simple, mundane memory, but when I think of it, I can’t help but smile. It’s a snapshot of authenticity, of real life, of a family bond that isn’t curated or performed, but simply lived. It’s one of the quiet moments that makes up the definition of family for me.
So I’m giving you this link, this key to my digital home. It’s a place where all my work is gathered, a continuous scroll where the most recent piece will always be waiting at the top. I hope that someday, my kids and grandkids might find it and, through it, find a piece of me.
And I want to leave you with a thought that has been pressing on my heart. Remember that sometimes it is not only okay to let go of everything you hold closest—it is also necessary and inevitable. The closer we get to that place of self-preservation, self-love, and self-understanding, the sooner we can release the misconception that letting go is the end of love.
It isn’t. It’s the beginning of a different, more resilient kind.
I love you, Jenn. Thank you for being strong enough to feel.
-cam d.s.
1:53am
∆Remember Us∆ 