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Letters from Her
Welcome to Letters From Her — a soul-space where love, loss, longing, and dharma meet.
Dear Reader,
If you’ve found your way here, you’re likely carrying a story.
Maybe you’ve stayed too long.
Maybe you’ve loved too hard.
Maybe you’ve been told to be less of yourself — quieter, softer, easier to love.
This space is for you.
For the woman who feels too much and has no place to express it.
For the one who's healing from relationships — romantic, familial, spiritual.
For those searching their soul or a soulmate for a language that’s part heart, part dharma.
*Letters From Her* is not a self-help.
It’s self-recognition.
A pause. A breath. A mirror.
Each letter is a poetic whisper written from one woman to another.
Not to fix. Just to feel.
Here’s what you can expect:
- Weekly poetic letters — on love, heartbreak, healing, and sacred self-worth
- Reflections that mix psychology with spiritual depth
- Voice-narrated reels, behind-the-scenes letters, and future community responses
This is a conversation — and you’re invited.
Whether you comment, forward, reflect, or simply read quietly in your inbox… you’re a part of this.
So stay.
Or come back when your heart needs softness.
With warmth,
Sonia Sharma
*Let’s Talk Relationships*
Disclaimer : 'Letters from Her' are born out of stories of despair, love, conflict and so on in relationships that some we we go through and some we learn having spoken to many. It's not my autobiography.
"Letters From Her"
“A Letter to the One Who Stayed Too Long”
Dear You,
There was a time I believed love meant holding on—
even when my fingers bled from the thorns I refused to let go of.
I mistook silence for peace.
I mistook routine for stability.
I mistook your half-hearted presence for devotion.
But love… love is not supposed to feel like waiting
at a door that never opens.
You lingered—not as a partner, but as a shadow.
And I…
I learned to shrink.
I danced to the rhythm of your distance.
I stitched excuses into explanations,
until I forgot what truth even felt like.
Still, I loved.
Because that’s what we’re told, isn’t it?
That love is sacrifice,
that endurance is virtue,
that leaving is weakness.
But let me tell you what I now know:
Love is not pain disguised as patience.
It is not the ache you carry quietly.
It is not the version of yourself you abandon
just to feel enough.
I’m writing this not to blame,
but to bless the girl I was.
To whisper into her scars that healing is not betrayal.
That walking away is not failure.
That some stories are meant to teach, not stay.
So I left.
Not because I stopped loving,
but because I started loving myself more.
With grace,
Her
“To the Woman Who Keeps Fixing Everything”
Dear You,
You are not broken for wanting to make things work.
But there’s a difference between healing something
and exhausting yourself trying to hold it together with threadbare hope.
You call it love.
But is it love,
or is it your fear of being the one who gives up?
You say he’s just wounded,
but who is soothing your wounds?
You soften for his chaos,
but who is holding your stillness?
You do not have to rescue what keeps drowning you.
You are allowed to say,
“This hurts too much.”
You are allowed to stop.
Fixing isn’t love.
Fixing is fear in a pretty disguise.
Love builds,
but it never begs.
With all my heart,
Her
“To the One Who Forgot Herself”
Dear You,
When was the last time you heard your own voice
without someone else’s expectations drowning it out?
You once laughed with your whole body.
You once wore color like rebellion.
You once believed in magic.
But you began to disappear—
one compromise at a time.
You became easier to love by becoming harder to recognize.
Here’s what I need you to know:
You don’t need to be palatable.
You don’t need to be pleasant.
You just need to be you.
Who you were before they told you to shrink
is still there.
Go find her.
She’s waiting.
With remembrance,
Her
A Letter to the One Who Loved Too Loud
Dear You,
You were told to tone it down—to love smaller, softer, quieter.
They didn’t know what to do with someone who felt in full color
while they lived in greyscale.
You wrote poems on people’s silences.
You saw warmth in cold glances.
You stayed when the room emptied.
But listen to me—You weren’t too much.
They were just not enough.
Loving deeply is not a fault.
It is a fire the wrong people fear
and the right ones revere.
You do not need to be less.
You only need to be with someone
who sees your intensity as sacred, not inconvenient.
With fire and tenderness,
Her