![image.png](https://images.hive.blog/DQmUPbrpdrZAfF4mY9dLUTXizN3KVMyeopeLvKR62oTt7h7/image.png)

My Dearest Bathtub Queen; 

I am writing this letter to you out of William’s concerns of awkwardness between the two of you, “But, you all don’t talk all the time; anymore?” I understand his need of validation; I assured him we were on the same page. This email is simply confirmation of that; and for healing. We are drifting towards different ends of the mountain; in order to climb separate peaks to success. It’s not personal. And I believe you feel that, with not just me. I am grateful you are allowing me to do this consciously. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye last time. In order to grow up; I must bury the old you. The old me must also be placed six feet under ground. I think that was the hardest thing; I did not want to let go. Bury my teenage self, I must. We die a million times in this life. My grandfather just passed away; I look at his old wedding pictures now. He was just another child grown old. I cannot be Peter Pan, forever. I must grow up too; kill off a younger part of me, the maiden. I must transform into the mother. I have to buy my own plane tickets, make it to the gate on time; plan. I cannot travel to the otherside of the world with just a snowsuit, the clothes under my snowsuit -- and a bag of books. I must take some spare underwear on my adventures thus forward. But damn did that girl have dreams. 

You helped me get to the base. What a wonderful journey it has been. And look at us now. I kept telling you in August of 2018 “shit is going to change”. I said that before I got pregnant; I said that after I got pregnant. You nodded; ready. That wound that happened thirteen years ago? I never healed before postpartum. When you moved to New York; when I moved to South Carolina -- Boom. Change. I hope you are happier than if you were a certified public accountant (aka Queen). You know -- the end all be all in the business world. Woo, those were the days. An accountant, the dream path you told my father about proudly in the car. You know, when he asked what we all wanted for our majors in college -- in the eighth grade. You were the only one with a finite answer; the backroads winded and waved while we drove together to some middle school dance. And look at you -- you fucking did it. Kind of. You told my dad your entire college education path; and you did just that. Accounting major extraordinaire, “but was that it?” you thought. And then you met me, again. 

We bonded over veganism and the fairytale land of our prime; the years of disposable income. Chatting about life beyond the veil of our childish perceptions. I did not help you study for the CPA exam. Quite the opposite. I like to think I helped you dream a bit bigger. You are on the path; so am I. I like to think about us before; the time of the in-between. I loved our relationship back then, it was a safe space for me. We could talk for hours as we planned our future lives. I needed that extra time with you; slow. I grew up slow. Do you remember eating in the backyard cabana being murdered by mosquitos in the New York City of Thailand? I was terrified walking back to the house full of bedbugs and raid. And now we’ve become sisters; successful in parent-trap -- I love you, forever. And I know you have a special place for me in your heart. To be honest, we weren’t great-great friends in middle school; I mean close enough -- not besties tight. Not, -- you know, I spent 60 days with you in a row -- sleeping naked in the cot next to you. How many times have you not asked to see my sunburnt body? I look back at those pictures only to forget all the burning trash piles. Instead it’s an edited version; similar to my memories. Postpartum added such stress to my nervous system that it caused a reboot; I zoomed out. I am narrating my own story now; that person you used to know? She was built from an entire system of generational constructs; that I am deconstructing. It’s just the humanoid pains from the natural ebbs and flows in life. Adaptation is better than stagnation.

I did not wish you a happy birthday this year; I thought about you instead. The truth is that I need space. We both are growing, flourishing, branching out. We both need space. It’s not personal. I hope you know how much of a fan I am from afar. Yes, you have helped me -- you also hurt and hindered me. Vise versa. Never on purpose; unaware, unconscious. I too easily rely on others when I need to take my atrophied legs for a stroll. I projected onto you in the past. In order to not do that in the future, I need to figure out the root cause of this emotional burden. It stems back to my mother. I also need to freeze you in my mental space. I need to process and digest who you were to me; no more data is needed. You are free, my muse. One day we can exchange digits, again. Maybe during another in-between. We can chat again when you have children, or plan your natural birth; after I complete my homebirth next round. [Note: I am not pregnant; just for extra clarity on that poetic sentence.] To heal emotionally is the only way that I can be ready; maybe my dad was right. The first child is the experiment. I desire to breastfeed; to have this image come to fruition. Emotional baggage must be sorted through first; healing is my first priority. And sometimes the space gets messier before it gets cleaned. If we see each other in passing over the years; I’ll embrace you as a sister. It will be different; however. You know this; we’ve known this time was coming. The times are changing; spring has turned to summer. We are working for a harvest; no longer dreaming of the seeds we are going to plant. The natural ebbs and flows in relationships. It’s okay; it’s natural. 

I am not coming back to Iconic-C; ever. I want to make that crystal clear --- and in writing. William has told me James has brought this up in conversations. When you all blow-up and make billions -- congratulations. I am always a fan of you; and of William -- of James too. I am still not seeking employment. The ventures I am pursuing do not align, period. You know my plans; I am sure you can see how this makes sense. I was not being dramatic in quitting; the choice was made with intention. It was real. Although, I originally wanted to discuss in a better fashion. Again, thank you for allowing me to do this consciously. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye last time. William has nothing to worry about on my end; I am sure you feel the same way about me. It should not be awkward, or daunting. It has been amazing to go through the whirls of the subconscious and heal the trauma stored in my cells. And you received your first fight with a friend; or anyone for that matter. That deserves a badge too. 

I hope this letter finds you well,
@laurabell