This Is for You—The One I’ve Been Writing To All Along

I didn’t plan to rename this space. But after two weeks of heavy silence, the truth rose. And it was you...

Apr 09, 2025

Dear you,

Yes, you.

The woman who quietly subscribed, maybe not even knowing why—but hoping, deep down, that this was a place where something might stir again.
A place where you wouldn’t have to perform. Or pretend. Or stay small.

I want you to know: you’re the reason I changed everything.

For two weeks, I carried this strange, heavy fog. You know the kind—where nothing’s technically wrong, but nothing feels right either?

I tried to keep going.
I painted. I wrote. I even buried myself in volunteer work—just to feel useful. Just to outrun whatever it was that wouldn’t name itself.

But every time I came back to the page, you were there.
Your chair on the porch.
Your quiet ache.
Your untold story.

And I couldn’t reach you. Not fully. Not yet.

So I kept circling, hoping the words would come.

And then I snapped.
I stood up and said out loud:
“I’ve had enough. Something has to give.”

A few hours later, my daughter—who's almost 50 now—called. She told me how much she loved my writing here on Substack. Her voice was full of light and love. It meant everything.

But then, softly, something else landed:
She didn’t quite get it.

She couldn’t see what this space was really for.

And in that moment, I knew exactly what had been pressing on my chest all along:

You didn’t know either.

And that’s my fault.

I’ve been writing for you—but I hadn’t claimed you.
I hadn’t drawn the porch wide enough, or spoken the truth loud enough.

So I’m changing that.
Right now.

This space—this circle of words, this breath of air between us—has a name now.
THE PORCH.

Because that’s what it always was, even before I saw it clearly.

A place where you could finally sit down and stop pretending.
A place where nobody’s asking you to fix yourself.
A place where your story—your real story—is welcome.

This is where I write to you from.

Where I sit with the ache, the joy, the mess, the beauty.
Where Pablo supervises, where the light pours in, where the paint doesn’t ask me for perfection—just honesty.
Where the rockers wait.

My Creative Studio: Pablo, my cat. An unfinished, untitled painting, and my own two rocking chairs !

Pablo, sunbathing in his usual spot. Arrogant, fussy, and full of opinions. He reminds me daily to take up space and bask in my light.

An untitled, unfinished piece. Just like me. Just like you. I never know what a painting—or a post—will become. I just keep showing up. That’s all any of us can do.

These are my rockers. They’ve held my silence, my laughter, my grief, and now—this sacred space. Your seat is here. It always has been.

I know you’ve tried.
You’ve read the books. You’ve journaled and prayed and maybe even bought the damn bubble bath.
And still, there’s that quiet question you don’t dare say too loud:

“Why does it still feel like something’s missing?”

Because you don’t reclaim your life in five easy steps.
You reclaim it by sitting down and finally telling the truth.
Your truth.

That’s what we’re doing here now.

So pull up a chair.

You don’t need to be healed to sit here.
You don’t need to know your dream yet.
You don’t even need to talk—just be present.

Every Wednesday night at 7PM ET, we meet on Zoom for Porch Chats.
No pressure. No spotlight. Just a place to be witnessed.
Come when you're ready. We’ll be rocking right here.

With love,
Monica Rose

🪑 P.S.

If this letter stirred something in you, tell me.
Leave a comment. Let me know you're out there.

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