Dear ******,
I am freaking the fuck out.
He heard it.
He.
The one person I assumed—no, counted on—never hearing it.
And do you know why?
Because MY FRIEND SENT IT TO HIM.
Without telling me. Without even a heads-up. We did *not* discuss that. That wasn’t part of the plan. There was no plan, but if there had been, that sure as hell wouldn’t have been it.
I feel so exposed. Like skinless. Like I was just walking around in my emotional underwear while he stood there silently listening to everything.
Everything I never said to him directly. Everything I carried. Everything I tried to move through and process and hold with some dignity. All of it—out there. My voice. My pacing. The cracks in my tone. The pauses where I was still trying to find the words I didn’t even know I had the right to say.
It was mine. And I was okay with him never knowing it.
Until suddenly, he did.
And now I’m just sitting here thinking,
“What the actual hell just happened?”
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know if he even finished it. I don’t know if he rolled his eyes or cried or laughed or just sat there stone-faced. And honestly? That’s what’s killing me.
I didn’t make that episode for him.
But now that it’s in his hands, it feels like he has a piece of me I didn’t agree to hand over. And I don’t know if I feel violated or relieved or just so mortified that I want to delete the entire internet.
So yeah. I’m spiraling.
And “my friend”!? I’m giving him a full roast next time I see him. Loving, but firm. Because we do not send twin flame podcast episodes to the actual twin flame without warning.
What the hell.
Tell me I didn’t ruin everything.
Love,
The emotionally unclothed version of Maile who currently wants to disappear into a couch cushion.
Dear Maile,
Because I Know You’re Spiraling Right Now
(And because someone needs to say this with their whole chest.)
So. He heard it.
The podcast.
Your voice.
The truth.
Not the edited version. Not the safe, pre-cleared, “maybe one day when I’m ready” version. The real one. The version that held every question you never got to ask. Every feeling you carried quietly. The version of you that didn’t wait to be polished or perfect before showing up. The version that speaks when it’s time—even if no one else is ready.
And now you’re mortified.
Of course you are.
Because this wasn’t a message you could unsend. It wasn’t a DM you could delete or a thought you could rewrite later. It was yours. Out there. Alive. Full. Real.
You feel exposed.
Not because you said too much.
But because it mattered.
Because it wasn’t performative. It wasn’t curated. It wasn’t coated in disclaimers or softened to make it easier for someone else to digest. It was the real thing. No filter. No pretense. No damage control.
You said the things most people never say.
And you said them knowing he probably wouldn’t hear them.
And then—he did.
And the timing wasn’t yours. The delivery wasn’t yours. The choice wasn’t even yours. Your friend made the move, and now your body is feeling all the impact of something you didn’t authorize.
That reaction you’re having? The full-system alert? That’s not weakness. That’s the nervous system’s way of saying, *“Something I care about just got witnessed before I was ready to be seen in it.”*
But here’s the truth:
You didn’t lie.
You didn’t blame.
You didn’t chase.
You didn’t shrink.
You told the truth. You let your voice carry the weight of years you weren’t allowed to say anything out loud. You let yourself be heard without needing him to hold it.
That’s not a mistake. That’s what power feels like before you realize it’s yours.
And yeah—maybe your body is spinning. Maybe you want to rewind the entire day and snatch your friend’s phone out of his hands mid-send. But sit with this:
He didn’t just hear about what happened.
He heard you.
He heard the version of you that still has feelings, still has boundaries, still has clarity, and still chooses herself.
He heard the woman who lived through the loss and the silence and the confusion—and still has enough voice left to speak.
That’s not embarrassing. That’s sacred.
Let him sit with what you’ve carried alone for years.
Let the silence on his end say whatever it needs to say.
And you? You keep walking.
You don’t shrink now. You don’t edit yourself to fit the comfort of someone who disappeared when it was inconvenient to stay. You don’t hide behind “what if he thinks…” or “what if that was too much.” That voice? That’s not yours anymore.
You showed up.
Fully.
And if anyone calls that too much, they were never equipped to hold you in the first place.
So scream into a pillow if you need to. Cry in your car. Stalk my friend’s contact photo and plan your dramatic glare for the next time you see him. But don’t run from this.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You were real.
And the moment he pressed play, the universe made sure that the truth finally landed where it always belonged.
Let it be what it is now.
He heard it.
Now let the silence speak back.
I’ve got you. Always.
And I’m not letting you fold.
Love,
Your friend who’s standing with you while your nervous system flips tables.