Letters to My Younger Self

Dear little me,

I know you cry at night sometimes, and you hide it well. You laugh at school, play with your cousins, pretend everything’s fine—but deep inside, you’re just hoping someone notices that you’re not okay.

I wish I could hold you, even for a moment, and tell you that it's not your fault. The fact that adults failed to protect you does not imply that you were intended to be weaker than you were. You were just a child. A little girl who tried too hard to make everyone happy, forgetting herself in the process.

I see you, still hiding behind the curtains when the voices get louder. Still blaming yourself for things you had no control over. Still believing that if you were just a little bit better, people might stay, the yelling might stop, and you might feel safe. I want to say: You did the best you could. And that was always enough.

But I know, no one ever told you that. So you kept trying. And trying. Until you got tired.

You thought silence was safety. You thought shrinking was survival. You wore invisibility like armor. But one day, you’ll learn: being small for too long makes you forget how big you truly are.

Let me tell you something you’ve waited years to hear:

You matter. Your voice matters. Your feelings are valid. Your dreams are not foolish.

One day, you’ll find peace—not because the world will be perfect, but because you’ll learn how to protect your own soul. You’ll discover the difference between being loved and being needed. And you'll choose love, every time.

You’ll stop apologizing for taking up space.

You’ll stop chasing people who only see your worth when it benefits them.

You’ll stop settling for almost and maybes.

Instead, you’ll start choosing yourself.

I won’t lie—there will be pain ahead. More heartbreaks. More losses. You’ll cry in your twenties in the same way you cried when you were ten. But here’s the miracle—you’ll still rise.

You'll rise with stronger legs and softer eyes.

You'll rise with poems in your pocket and scars on your skin.

You’ll rise with gratitude that you made it, even when you thought you wouldn’t.

And one day—yes, really—you’ll be someone’s safe space. Because you are familiar with what it is like to be alone, you will speak gently to other people. You’ll smile again—not the fake one—but the kind that reaches your eyes.

And you’ll look in the mirror and say,

“You survived. And you became more than the pain.”

So, my sweet younger self,

Thank you for being brave when you were scared.

Thank you for holding on when letting go felt easier.

Thank you for dreaming, even when reality was cruel.

Thank you for not giving up on me—on us.

If I could go back, I wouldn't change a thing—not because the pain was fair, but because it taught me how to heal. And in that healing, I found me.

With all my love,

Your older, softer, wiser self.

Author’s Note:

We often look back and carry guilt, regret, and sadness for how we were shaped in our early years. Anyone who is healing should read this letter to know that they are not alone. Kindly address your inner child because they have waited long enough to be heard.