The Letter I Wrote to Myself the Night I Almost Gave Up

The Letter I Wrote to Myself the Night I Almost Gave Up

by (Mujeeb ur Rahman)

It was one of those nights when the silence felt heavier than noise. The world outside was asleep, but inside me, a storm raged with no sign of stopping. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, not crying just feeling everything and nothing all at once.

I wasn’t sure what had pushed me over the edge. Maybe it was the pile of unmet expectations. The loneliness. The weight of always pretending to be okay. Or maybe it was just life, raw and unfiltered, pressing against my chest.

In that moment, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not friends. Not family. I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want advice.

I just wanted the pain to stop.

And that’s when I saw the notebook on my nightstand the one I hadn’t touched in months. I picked up a pen and, without knowing what I was doing, I began to write.

But not to anyone else.

I wrote to me

Dear Me

I know you’re tired. I know you feel invisible. You carry smiles like armor, and no one sees the war underneath. I know you wonder if anyone would even notice if you stopped trying.

But I see you.

I see the way your hands tremble when you're holding too much.

I see how you wake up every morning and try again, even when your heart feels hollow.

I see your strength in the quiet, in the tears you wipe alone, in the kindness you give when your own cup is empty.

You think you're weak.

You’re not.

You’ve survived storms that should’ve broken you.

You think no one understands?

Maybe not. But that doesn't make your feelings any less real. You don’t need permission to hurt.

I know you’ve lost parts of yourself.

You miss the laughter, the curiosity, the spark.

But that person isn’t gone she’s just buried under the weight of everything you’ve carried.

You’re still in there.

And I’m not giving up on you.

So tonight, breathe.

Not because everything is fine.

But because your next breath might be the one where it starts to get better.

Love,

The You Who Still Believes

By the time I finished, I was crying. Not because the pain was gone, but because, for the first time in a long while, I had listened to myself. I hadn’t silenced my feelings or shamed them into a corner. I had faced them, with trembling hands and open honesty.

That night, I didn’t find all the answers. I didn’t become magically healed.

But I felt seen.

And sometimes, that’s all we really need to be seen, even if only by ourselves.

In the days that followed, I kept that letter close. Whenever the world felt like too much, I’d read it. Slowly, I started writing more letters. Some to my younger self. Some to the future me. Some just to the part of me that felt forgotten.

And with every word, I stitched myself back together not perfectly, but gently.

I’m still learning.

Still healing.

Still surviving.

But now, I know that when the world goes quiet, and the darkness tries to creep in again, I won’t be alone.

Because I’ll always have the part of me that still believes the version that writes letters instead of goodbyes.