Happy anniversary. You two are easy to celebrate. The hard part is finding new ways to say it.
Fresh today · Monday, 27 July
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
Anniversary wishes. May this year deepen the parts of your marriage that don't show up in the photos.
Thinking of you. I'm not going to pretend to know what this is like. I'm just going to keep showing up.
Sending strength for the long days. The fight isn't fair. You're not facing it alone.
Whatever today looks like — chemo, scan, just rest — I'm proud of you for doing it. That counts as a win.
Wishing you a small good moment today. Just one. They add up.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
I'm not going to say be strong. You already are. I'm going to say I'm here, and mean it.
Hope today is one of the kinder days. They come. Not every day, but enough.
Sending love. Not advice, not platitudes, not silver linings. Just love.
Wishing you a soft day. Soft pillow, soft news, soft people around you.
Whatever the scan said, however the treatment hit, you are still you under all of it. I haven't forgotten.
Thinking of you. Tell me when you want company, and tell me when you want quiet. Both are okay.
Wishing you steady hands at the clinic and steady people at home.
I won't ask how you are — I know how you are. I'll just ask if you ate today, and what I can drop off.
Hope today the body cooperates a little. Hope tomorrow it cooperates a little more.
Sending you strength for the parts no one sees — the waiting rooms, the early mornings, the side effects.
Wishing you a day with energy enough to enjoy something small. A view, a song, a meal that finally tastes like itself.
Holding you in my thoughts. The fight is private; the love around you is not.
Hope this stretch ends with good news. Until it does, I'm here.
Wishing you a chemo day with a friend who knows when to talk and when to just sit there with you.
You are doing something hard. Most people would not be holding it together as well as you are. I see it.
Sending love. The kind that doesn't need a reply.
Wishing you a quieter night, a longer sleep, and a morning that's slightly easier than the one before.
Hope the meds work, the appetite returns, and the scans next time are boring in the best possible way.
Thinking of you. I'll keep texting; you reply when you can. The conversation is open-ended.