Letter to the Child I Used to Be

My dear younger self,

If you could read these words, you’d probably smile in disbelief.

You’re still there, in your small room, surrounded by toys and enormous dreams, not knowing that the world will change you more than you can imagine. I’m writing this from a future you could never have drawn with your colored pencils — a future where you’ll learn what pain means, but also healing, what it means to lose and to find yourself again.

First of all, I want to tell you — stop rushing to grow up.

I know you can’t wait to be “grown,” to make your own choices, to depend on no one. But here’s the truth: once you do grow up, you’ll often wish you could go back — to the nights when time stood still, to the laughter outside your building, to the moments when the world was simple and love came without conditions.

Remember this, little one: not everyone who says they’ll love you, truly will.

Some will leave without a word. Others will hurt you without meaning to. But please, don’t become cold because of them. Don’t learn to wear armor just because someone broke your heart. Let your soul stay warm, even when the world tries to freeze it.

When you’re sixteen, you’ll feel like the world is collapsing on you. You’ll think you’re alone, that no one understands you. You’ll listen to sad music, write poems you’ll never show anyone, and you’ll wonder if life is even worth living. Let me tell you — yes, it is.

Not for the big moments, but for the small ones — for the coffee you’ll sip on a quiet morning, for a smile from a stranger, for the moment you’ll finally realize that you’ve forgiven yourself.

When you become an adult, you’ll understand something important: you don’t need to have it all figured out. Life isn’t a checklist — it’s a series of lessons. Some painful, some beautiful. Don’t run from them.

You’ll fall in love — more than once.

Some loves will burn you to ashes. One will break you in two. But another, later, will rebuild you. You’ll learn that love isn’t possession, it’s freedom. That it doesn’t mean “I have you,” but “I choose you.” And that true love begins when you can look in the mirror and honestly say: “I am enough.”

I know you’re afraid to be vulnerable. But that vulnerability will become your greatest strength. You’ll write — and through writing, you’ll be reborn. You’ll turn pain into words and words into light. People will read you and see themselves in your story. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re real.

One day, you’ll lose people you love. Some will be taken by time, others by distance. And you’ll wonder why life feels so unfair. The truth is, time doesn’t steal — it transforms.

Memories don’t disappear; they just learn to breathe differently.

Someday, on a night when you feel like you can’t go on, you’ll remember that child — yourself — and you’ll realize he’s still there inside you. You never really lost him. You just buried him under years of guilt, fear, and expectations. You’ll call out to him, and he’ll answer.

You’ll laugh again. Not because life becomes easy, but because you’ll learn to love it exactly as it is — imperfect, chaotic, but full of meaning.

So please, don’t give up.

When you feel lost, look up at the sky. It’s the same sky we both once watched. The same stars that taught us how to dream. Make yourself a promise: no matter how hard life gets, never stop dreaming.

Because one day, your small dreams will become entire worlds.

And even if you don’t end up where you thought you would, you’ll arrive exactly where you’re meant to be.

Thank life for everything it gave you — and for everything it took away.

Forgive yourself. Forgive others. And keep going.

Oh, and one more thing…

When you grow up, you’ll realize the world is full of people searching for the same thing as you: to be seen, heard, and understood.

So use your voice. Tell your stories. Write your truth — not for validation, but for healing.

And if someday you feel like a child again, lost between fears and hopes, remember this:

Everything you were looking for in others was always inside you.

With love,

Me — the one who learned to live.