Querido yo, vamos a estar bien.
There’s a Tuesday. You won’t know it’s coming. You’ll be buying bread, and the cashier will say, “Have a nice day,” and you’ll realize—you mean it when you say, “You too.” Not just the words. The feeling. That’s the day you’ll know.
And inside, just four words:
Right now, your chest feels like it’s caving in. You’re googling “how to stop crying” and “is this normal” and the internet is making it worse. I know. I’m you. I’m writing this from the other side. Libro Querido Yo Vamos A Estar Bien
She remembered writing it. It was three in the morning. She had just finished the last of a cheap bottle of wine, her mascara tracing dark rivers down her cheeks. She had stared at her reflection in the fogged bathroom mirror, disgusted and exhausted. That younger version of herself had no idea that worse was coming. She didn’t know about the miscarriage at twenty-eight. Or the divorce at thirty. Or the panic attacks that would start in grocery stores, making her feel like the fluorescent lights were screaming.
I’m not saying it becomes easy. I’m saying it becomes worth it.
She wasn’t fixed. The grief still visited, like a quiet relative who stayed too long. But she had learned to open the door, offer it tea, and watch it leave. Querido yo, vamos a estar bien
We are going to be okay. Not perfect. Not fixed. But okay. And okay is a beautiful place to live.
The envelope had been buried at the bottom of the box for eleven years. Inside, a single sheet of paper, folded into a tight square, with four words on the front in her own handwriting: Para cuando más duela.
But here’s what I need you to know: you survive it. Not the movie version where you bounce back and become a CEO. The real version. The one where you learn to make tea again. Where you go back to that park bench where you used to sit together, and you sit there alone, and you don’t die. The sun sets. You go home. You brush your teeth. You do it again the next day. You’ll be buying bread, and the cashier will
She took out a new envelope. She wrote on the front: Para la próxima vez que duela.
Te quiero. No te rindas.
But that younger self had still picked up a pen.