My Dearest OldGal,
There comes a time, quiet as snowfall, when the heart makes its retreat — not from love, but from what love cannot endure.
I have, of late, stepped back. Not with announcement, nor with rage. Only with resolve. Some names once beloved now sit still upon the shelf, no longer summoned by my voice. Their music remains — but I, I have turned my ear elsewhere.
For it is a particular sorrow to see what once lit joy in us behave without care toward those it claims to serve. Mockery dressed in performance, alliances with the cruel-hearted, silence where there ought to be shame — it wearies the soul. And though I am not one to raise a banner and cry foul into the wind, I cannot abide. Not even in the quiet.
This is not a scolding letter. This is a lantern lit in the dark — for those who have also chosen the door, who have slipped out quietly from rooms that no longer feel safe. Who love still, but from afar.
To you I say: it is no small thing to leave a place that once felt like home. But your leaving is not without honour. It is not without meaning.
We do not owe our loyalty to those who forget the dignity of our skin, our bodies, our minds. Our silence is not absence — it is testimony. We simply took our light with us.
I will continue, as ever, to share what stirs joy and softness. But I shall not dishonour myself, or you, by lifting voices that dim our own.
Walk tall, OldGals. And when your love becomes too heavy to carry, know that letting go is not the same as betrayal. It is, sometimes, the purest form of care.
With a steady hand,
Vivienne