Dear Abby has always had a way of holding up a mirror to the private, unspoken corners of our hearts. The letters that arrive in her mailbox are never just simple questions; they are confessions, quiet pleas for recognition, and sometimes the only words a person has been able to say out loud. In that spirit, two recent letters stand out because they reveal how often we hide our deepest struggles behind ordinary lives. One comes from a 42-year-old woman who says she has a great life, a good job, a loving boyfriend, and a family she adores. She is a mother and grandmother, and she has worked hard to overcome a lifetime of low self-esteem. With her boyfriend of seven years, she has learned to be more open, to share what she truly feels inside, and to believe she is worthy of love. And yet, for the past couple of years, a disturbing thought has taken root in her mind: she wishes she would be in a car accident or somehow injured, just to feel pain. She sees accidents on the highway and thinks, “that should have been me.” She is quick to clarify that she does not want to die, nor does she wish harm on anyone else. She simply cannot shake the feeling that her body should hurt as much as her soul sometimes does.
That letter is heartbreaking because it describes a woman who has done everything right. She has built a life that looks happy from the outside and even feels happy much of the time. But underneath the love and the laughter, there is a persistent whisper telling her she does not deserve any of it. This is not a cry for attention or a dramatic gesture. It is a quiet, agonizing belief that happiness is borrowed and must be repaid with pain. The woman is afraid to tell her boyfriend because she loves him too much to make him worry, and she is afraid to seek counseling because she imagines being judged, medicated, or locked away. She ends her letter with a fragile request: she just wants to know if she is crazy. That word, “crazy,” carries so much shame, and her fear of being labeled that way keeps her trapped in silence. Her story is a reminder that mental health struggles often hide behind the most put-together faces. Grandmothers, partners, and successful professionals can all be fighting invisible battles, feeling that they are not allowed to fall apart because their lives look fine to everyone else.
Abby’s answer to her is gentle but wise. She tells the woman she is not crazy, and she says it with the authority of someone who has heard countless similar confessions. Then she explains something profound: when people struggle with self-esteem issues for a long time, they sometimes begin to believe on a subconscious level that they deserve whatever unhappiness comes their way. When they finally find happiness, they feel guilty and think they should be punished for it. That may be exactly what is happening. The woman’s wish for injury is not a suicidal wish, as she fears, but an expression of an old, distorted belief that she must earn happiness through suffering. Abby also addresses the woman’s fear of mental health treatment. That fear is common, and it is understandable, but it is also based on a misconception. Discussing these feelings with a licensed professional is not a one-way ticket to a hospital or a prescription pad. Instead, it can be the first step toward untangling the old beliefs and learning to accept joy without punishment. Abby urges her not to hide her feelings because she is stronger and more capable of growth than she realizes. The answer is not just reassurance; it is an invitation to take the next courageous step.
The second letter comes from a woman in her sixties who is carrying a different kind of lonely ache. She asks whether it would be inappropriate to send a sympathy card to a man who lost his wife a couple of months ago. This woman and the man have a history, a romance that began back when they were in their thirties. Decades have passed, and now they are in their sixties, and she has heard that he is grieving. Her instinct is to reach out, but she is unsure if that would be welcome or seen as presumptuous. Her question sounds simple, but it is really about so much more: How do we honor old love when life has taken us in different directions? When is it appropriate to reconnect, and when should we stay silent out of respect? There is something tender and vulnerable about a person who holds onto a memory of a deep connection and wonders if the door might open again. The fact that she asks for advice rather than just sending the card shows that she cares about the man’s feelings and does not want to intrude on his grief.
Abby’s response is kind but full of cautious boundaries. She tells the woman it is fine to send a sympathy card, as long as the message is purely friendly and sympathetic. But she warns her against doing anything more. A card is an act of kindness, a way to say “I remember you and I am sorry for your loss.” It does not carry hidden expectations, or at least it should not. Any further gestures, however, would be brazen and could feel like she is trying to take advantage of a vulnerable moment. If the man ever wants to start a new chapter with her, Abby says, he needs to be the one to initiate it. That advice is wise because grief is complicated, and the person who is mourning must be allowed to set the pace. Reaching out with a card is a gentle way to re-establish contact, but it should be like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean: it might find a shore, or it might simply be a kind goodbye. The woman who wrote this letter is not wrong to hope, but she is wise enough to know that hope must be balanced with respect. She deserves credit for seeking guidance instead of acting impulsively out of loneliness.
Taken together, these two letters show us something important about the human heart. One woman is trying to accept that she deserves the love she has found, while the other is wondering whether she should reach out to a love she lost long ago. Both are standing at the edge of vulnerability, asking the same fundamental question: Am I allowed to want this? Am I allowed to be happy, or to ask for connection, without being punished, rejected, or seen as foolish? Abby’s answers remind us that we are allowed to ask for help, and that asking does not make us crazy. We are also allowed to extend a hand to someone in pain, but we must be willing to let them choose whether to take it. The first woman needs to hear that her thoughts are not a sign of weakness but a signal that she needs support. The second woman needs to hear that she can be kind to the man she once loved, but she cannot control the future. In both cases, the solution is not to retreat into silence or to act out of desperation. It is to take one small, honest step: make an appointment with a counselor, or put a gentle card in the mailbox, and then trust that whatever happens next will be enough.
What makes these letters so moving is that they are not unusual. Millions of people have felt, at some point, that their pain is invisible or that their loneliness is too embarrassing to admit. We live in a culture that often rewards busyness and strength, but the heart needs silence and rest. The woman who wishes she were in an accident is not crazy; she is exhausted by the effort it takes to constantly prove her worth. The woman who wants to send a sympathy card is not foolish; she is brave enough to let her heart speak after decades of silence. Dear Abby, in her decades of letters and advice, has always understood that the smallest questions often contain the largest truths. A person asks about a card, but they are really asking about permission to love again. A person asks about strange thoughts, but they are really asking for permission to keep living. The best response to both is not a diagnosis or a rule, but a compassionate reminder that every feeling is worth examining and every person is worth hearing. We are not alone in our confusion, and we are never as far from hope as we think we are. The first step toward healing is simply to say, out loud, what has been living in the shadows. And sometimes the most human thing we can do is to write a letter, even if we are not sure who is listening.
