A self-love letter

My love—

Would you have believed me if I told you, just a few years ago, that things would get so much better? 

Of course, you wouldn't have. Because as one of my favorite film heroines of all time put it, “you can't believe what you see, but you can believe what you feel.” 

It's five in the morning. The sun has not yet begun rising; all you see is a very faint shade of a paler blue dripping from a pitch black starry canvas; it’s hugging the roofs of houses and the branches of trees, an ever fulfilling promise of light to take dreams and nightmares home, and bestow upon you a new day full of possibilities you wouldn’t have considered feasible just a year ago as you wondered why the hell your life feels as impossible to love as it does. 

For instance, this time last year you would have been in bed, eyes wide open behind a sleeping mask, desperate for another hour of sleep, desperate for the demons to go back into hiding, go back into the corners of your unconscious where they’ve hidden calculatedly for years. 

Instead, today, you’ve already had medicine: cannabis—and long before breakfast, too. Instead, today you're sitting in the silence of the morning, so beautiful and quiet, mind at peace despite the lack of sleep.

You held on, beautiful soul. And I’m so glad you did. A few years ago, you had no idea just how free you'd be today. 


I think I was about 11 or 12 the first time I consciously thought about cannabis.

I remember looking into the bloodshot eyes of my cannabis-loving father, intrigued. I also have vivid memories of visiting my grandmother as a child, where the bedrooms of her adult sons smelled like the mysterious plant, as well. I still recall how I kept wondering about this shadowy scent, wondering what it does, curious why all the men in my family carried that smell around them? 

I could've easily found the magic of cannabis myself, had I accepted the countless offers from my friends as I got older. They blazed unabashedly and unashamed. Day in. Day out. I was fifteen when a bunch of us laid on the grass of an amusement park, listening to a Kraken concert, as they smoked. They were smiling goofily, lost in their thoughts, staring at the sky through dry itchy eyes. I remember thinking to myself how happy I was at that moment, and how weird it was that I felt as dreamy and as relaxed as them, even without using the mysterious herb that seemed to have everyone else around me so enchanted. 


When the armed conflict in my native Colombia ripped me from the land that bred me, and life landed me in a German city, surrounded by nothing but concrete, all of that was gone.

There were no friends smiling through half closed eyes at the countless cloud animals forming in the sky.

There were no lush green mountains and no twelve hours of sunlight every day.

I didn’t hear singing on the streets anymore and definitely no smiling at strangers.

With every minute of every day in this country that was my mother's cradle, I felt myself grow harder on the outside and profoundly more depressed on the inside.

Different deeply traumatic events that took place in my young life began to command my attention and I found myself in a psychological nightmare of scary proportions. The aftereffects of childhood sexual abuse, extreme domestic violence, severe substance abuse in my family, growing up in armed conflict, fleeing the country before even becoming an adult, the bullying at my new German school, an abusive first relationship, homophobic attacks and continued sexualized violence took me on a ride through hell and back that I’m still not sure how I escaped. 

Years of therapy and self-help could only do so much – my sleep problems and several deep-seated behavioral and emotional patterns seemed impossible to overcome, no matter what I did.
After years of fighting for my sanity, I accepted that my life would never be at ease, that I would never feel rested, that I would never enjoy sex. That I would always, very quietly, very eagerly, long for this journey to end. 

The second time cannabis appeared in my life was when I became friends with a very dedicated stoner at my new school. She was this seemingly happy-go-lucky, bulimic, tanorexic angel when I was an ill- tempered, depressed, insomniac goth that self harmed and battled CPTSD. We were a hilarious pair, the two of us. We were the crow and the flamingo. She never ate her breakfast, so I ate it for her while she got high in between classes. She was as lonely and as sad as I was, and what I didn't realize back then, something I know now, is that she was (subconsciously) self-medicating with cannabis. 

Alas, it took me yet another decade before Mama Ganja took me by her hand and led me to some of the most beautiful mental places I've ever been. Places people like me don’t believe in. 


When you came to me, pure and simple, as love should be, you came bearing gifts. In one hand, you held all the tenderness of your soul, to pour over me. In your other hand you held a flower. A green, rare flower of intoxicating beauty and confusing perfume, of ancient and transcendental wisdom. 


Love found me, unexpectedly, in my own home, when both our commitments lay elsewhere. But love, like whitewater, cannot be contained. 



I remember looking at the beautiful human whom I would one day be hand-fast to, for the first time, sitting on my rooftop in the sunset, lighting up a joint. I felt peace, serenity, the stillness of time. 

When my moon came and pain washed through me, this human offered me a little of their herb. I never liked smoking cigarettes, having only tried it once or twice during adolescence and hated it, so I declined. 

She then went into the kitchen and came back with two wholemeal crackers, warm olive oil with green crumbs in it spread on top. An hour and a half later I sat in the sunset with her, giggling, the pain in my back, legs, and breasts minimized. My heart lifted and my mind was full of color and possibility. 

It wasn't the first time I had cannabis to eat, but it was the first time it felt this good. Actually, the first time I had an edible went really, really wrong. But that's a tale for another day. Back then I was unaware of set and setting, and what a difference that you’re consuming with makes on the experience you have. 

This time, though, plant medicine opened a portal to healing that I never saw coming. Cannabis came to me through someone who knew intuitively what they were doing. My partner has a true relationship with the herb, a sacred and intimate one. Trusting her meant to trust the plant. 

So, in the same way I gave myself to love, I gave myself to cannabis. Fearless, with honesty, compassion, integrity and joy. I learned how to establish boundaries and explore the edges of my comfort zones, until I could leave them altogether. Until I could find myself in the outskirts of what I used to think is wrong and right. Until I found my humanity again. 

Cannabis, like love, has held me through the darkest of memories. She nurtured me in the most debilitating of flashbacks, cradled me and rocked me to sleep. She has deepened my love for life in ways I didn't dare to dream of. 

The sun has risen. The neighbor's lonely dog is barking. I feel rested. I am learning to love making love. And sometimes, very quietly, very eagerly, I long for this journey to never end. 

Written by: Sarah P., for Cannabis For Breakfast




Follow Sarah’s inspiring journey to mental, physical, emotional and psychic healing on her Instagram @cosmicganjafemme.