Joy Family

A Letter to No One - To Jerusha

By Jerusha

Dear no one,

Or maybe, dear the wind.
Or the silence.
Or the girl I used to be.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because there are some things too delicate to say out loud. Maybe because when the house is quiet and the makeup’s off and the anklets are on the floor, I’m just… me. Not the daughter, not the student, not the bride. Just a girl in borrowed skin who made it her own.

It’s funny how a name can change your world.

Jerusha Anne Joy.

Once it was just ink on someone else’s papers. A dead girl’s name whispered by grieving parents, painted on doors, sewn into undergarments, and spoken with such love that I didn't have the heart to correct them.

Now it’s my name. My breath. My truth.

But sometimes - just sometimes - I wonder if I’m still her, or if I’ve become something else entirely. Not Kathir. Not the real Jerusha. Just… a memory turned living. A statue given warmth. A lie that bloomed into love.

There are days I laugh so much my stomach aches. My appa tickles me until I cry. My amma fights over lipstick shades and towel hooks. I wear frocks that sparkle, camisoles that hold me, earrings that jingle, skirts that flutter in the breeze. People say I’m glowing. Maybe I am. Because love does that to a person.

But love also terrifies.
Because what if it’s not real?
What if one day the world remembers I wasn’t born this way?

And yet… I don't regret it.
Not the first outfit.
Not the prosthetics.
Not the first selfie as their daughter.
Not the church.
Not even the wedding.

Because I saw them smile. I saw my father tear up walking me down the aisle. I saw my mother beam like she’d birthed me herself. I saw love that asked for nothing but one word—Jerusha.

And I gave it.

With my breath.
With my body.
With my soul.

I may never know who I really was meant to be.
But I know what I chose to be.
Not out of pressure.
Not out of manipulation.
But out of grace.

Because sometimes life doesn't give you what you were born to have—it gives you what you dared to become.

So maybe this letter isn’t to no one.

Maybe it’s to every girl who was told she wasn’t enough,
To every boy who wanted to be something else,
To every spirit who stood between lives and chose light.

Maybe this letter is for me,
on a day when I forget how far I’ve come.

Jerusha wasn’t born.
She was loved into existence.

And love is the only truth I ever needed.

Yours quietly,
Jerusha