“Dear Me: A Letter to the Girl Who Survived in Silence”

✉️ Dear Me,

You don’t know this yet—but you’re going to be okay.

I know how exhausted you are.

You’ve been carrying a weight that no one sees.

Smiling when it hurts. Laughing when you feel like screaming.

Pretending to be fine when every part of you is falling apart on the inside.

You’ve gotten so good at hiding your pain—even from yourself.

But I see you.

Because I was you.

I remember the late nights when sleep felt like a stranger and silence screamed louder than the world ever did.

Nights when the darkness didn’t feel peaceful—it felt heavy, suffocating.

You lay in bed staring at the ceiling, praying for a reason to keep going.

You searched for answers in the wrong places.

You begged the universe for a sign, even though you’d stopped believing it was listening.

And still, somewhere deep in that silence, a whisper remained.

“Keep going.”

And somehow… you did.

You kept going.

You got out of bed even when you didn’t want to.

You answered texts with smiley faces even when your chest felt hollow.

You sat through conversations pretending to be present when your mind was a million miles away.

There were days you thought breaking would mean failing.

But I’m here to tell you something important:

Breaking is not the end.

Breaking is how you began to bloom.

Every tear you cried wasn’t weakness.

It was growth.

You weren’t falling apart.

You were shedding versions of yourself that were never meant to stay.

The people who left?

They didn’t break you.

They revealed the parts of you that needed your own love more than theirs.

The plans that fell apart?

They didn’t ruin you.

They redirected you.

The heartbreak that nearly unraveled you?

It didn’t destroy you.

It opened your heart to what real love is supposed to feel like—beginning with the love you give yourself.

You thought success was becoming who others wanted you to be.

Now I know:

Success is becoming who you already were underneath the fear.

You thought healing meant fixing every broken piece.

Now I know:

Healing is loving those pieces, even when they don’t fit perfectly.

You thought purpose was some big, impressive achievement.

Now I know:

Purpose is peace.

Purpose is presence.

Purpose is choosing to show up anyway.

And if I could go back—

I’d hug you. Tight.

I’d tell you that your softness is not a flaw, it’s your superpower.

That you are not “too sensitive.”

That you are not “too much.”

You just hadn’t found the right spaces yet.

But those spaces exist—and you’ll grow into them.

One day, your laugh will come back.

Not the forced one, the real one—the one that shakes from the belly and fills a room.

One day, the dreams you buried will breathe again.

You’ll remember who you were before the world told you who to be.

One day, your heart will no longer ache at the sound of your own name.

It will sing instead.

And one day, you’ll look in the mirror and finally recognize the reflection.

Not perfect.

But whole.

So this is my love letter to you—

To the version of me that kept breathing when it hurt to exist.

To the one who wanted to give up but didn’t.

To the one who cracked but didn’t crumble.

You weren’t weak.

You were a warrior in silence.

And now?

Now I get to live the life you were fighting for.

Thank you for surviving.

Thank you for holding on.

With all my heart,

Me

(But the healed version)