You deserve to be worshipped.
Every inch of you is worth something. Every freckle and sunburn and scar is a story, and thus you have become the great author to yourself.
I know at times it seems like the good outweighs the bad, like your history and your loneliness are the only story left inside a thousand blank pages. But you know who you are, little cricket.
I know you remember the good days, the laughter that echoes over your lips. You have always had the sweetest smile. Genuine. Not the framed pictures hanging like trophies in the living room. You remember. Your friends do you right to capture you as you are.
I know you spend a lot of time thinking, and I need you to know that that ain’t always what’s best. Sometimes you can’t think. You have to do.
Find a list, make a list, and follow that damn list until your mind is done criticizing you for things you have no control over.
There is a way to fight sadness, and it is not self-destruction. It is planting marigolds over ash, it is rebuilding fallen treehouses, it is continuing to write even when it feels like you have nothing to say.
Be brave, little cricket. Stay happy.