Dear Kate,
I thought about addressing it to 'Katie', the name that seems to roll off the lips of anyone who meets you, but I know better than to think that's what you would prefer. You always thought Kate sounded prettier, more 'princess-y', and I actually quite agree. You would be excited to learn that there is a crown princess in England even as I write this that sports the name herself, though I'm afraid that nobody ever learned to call you that; by the time everyone realized you were serious about not liking 'Katie' very much, the habit had grown deep roots. It's not all a loss, though, because while that nickname stuck around, now more people call you 'Kathryn' than anything else, and I've found it's not quite the old lady name you think it is.
You're probably confused, reading this letter as if it's written by someone who knows you, but I promise: while I might not be entirely recognizable to you, you are very much recognizable to me. You're the epitome of a dreamer, the girl who looks at the future with hope, and trusts God to provide. In fact, you dreamed and hoped and trusted so thoroughly, that I think I still hear you sometimes.
You're the voice that whispers to me to take a chance, the one who says, "It might work this time!" when I'm standing at a crossroads doing the adult duty of weighing pros and cons, and fear starts to set in. I still house the echoes of your dreams like treasures in my heart, and some nights, when nobody else is around, I dream them again. You'e the one who tells me that it can still get better, even though I would likely never repeat it alongside you.
I'm afraid the visions and desires for our future that you entrusted to me did not bear fruit the way we wanted. Likely, you would be disappointed to see them now; many are cracked and broken, the roads I chose to lead us down proving a bit too rough for the fragile boxes I had packed them in. Others I traded away, thinking that their value would buy me safety when I needed it the most.
While I could make excuses, while I could tell you that the world was meaner, and the universe crueler than you ever could have imagined, I believe that would be a disservice to you. I know better than anyone else how it felt to ask to use the restroom during elementary school just to have some time to cry. How, despite the fact there were so many people around, just like you, you felt like you were all alone. I remember the heat that took over your body when Mrs. Aukamp in third grade told the class, "And people think this kid is gifted? Shows how far our standards have fallen" after you made a mistake on the math problem on the chalkboard. I remember how everyone laughed, how a piece of you crumpled and wondered if they were right.
So no, I cannot point to the potholes, the storms, the pain that came in waves as I tried to navigate life's waters and claim you were naive and blind, because the truth is the world was never crueler than you expected. You knew better than most your age how horrible people could be, that there was always going to be something that would make you cry, that would make you feel like you did not belong.
The difference between you and I is that you had faith that our ship would hold against the raging seas, and I grew tired and lowered the sails.
There is a quote that I have stumbled upon in my journey, one that makes me think of you:
"An entire sea of water can't sink a ship unless it gets inside the ship. Similarly, the negativity of the world can't put you down unless you allow it to get inside you."
-Goi Nasu
When it was my turn to take the helm, you handed me the halyard and tiller, the colorful maps of undiscovered places you knew were somewhere in the expanse beyond. You trusted me to voyage the waters for you, to find our home, but the smaller your voice became, the harder it was for me to bail our ship after a storm, and eventually I grew so tired of repairs that I let myself wallow in the water and no longer prayed for help.
There are no excuses for what I let happen to our ship, nor the treasures I traded away. Instead, I would like to apologize, because I lost sight of the things that mattered to you most. I know that "sorry"s, no matter how sincere, mean very little to you, so I would like to make you a promise instead. Our little broken ship carried me far enough that I think I've found a port. I am finally asking for help; I am going to repair our treasures, and I'm going to fix our ship. I'm going to try again, and do better.
I cannot promise I can save everything. Your dreams were so big and so irreplaceable that some might not be reparable even by the most skilled of workers. However, what I can promise is that I'm going to navigate our waters as best as I can so that someday, when we reach our final anchor, you and I can disembark as one, hand in hand, and you won't resent me or regret allowing me to sail.
I know you've waited a long time for for life to turn around, but I think if anyone is patient enough to give a poor navigator a second chance at using your maps, it's you: the czarina who wanted to save dragons instead of slay them, and who valued kindness above beauty.
So keep dreaming big and loud--this time, I'll do better at listening.
Forever yours,
Kathryn
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