The Unwritten Letters I Never Sent to Myself

I used to write letters to myself every year on my birthday.

I don't remember why I started—maybe because I thought it was poetic, or maybe I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone who understood me better than anyone else could.

My younger self believed in time travel.

That words, carefully folded and left behind, could someday reach the future.

That one day, the older me would open a drawer or a folder on a forgotten USB stick, and feel seen.

And I did. I saw her.

I saw the 14-year-old girl begging not to become bitter.

The 17-year-old who thought she had nothing left to say.

The 19-year-old who promised she'd leave if things didn’t change.

The 21-year-old who didn’t write anything at all.

That was the year everything stopped.

It’s strange, looking back. The most powerful moments in our lives don’t come with soundtracks or captions.

They happen in silence.

In the space between breathing and breaking.

I didn’t mean to stop writing to myself.

I just got busy. Or tired. Or numb.

It was easier to scroll than to feel.

To distract than to reflect.

But the silence built a wall between me and… me.

And it was only recently—on a night when sleep wouldn’t come and my chest felt heavy with something unnameable—that I stumbled across those old files.

“Open when you’re lost,” one said.

I did.

The letters weren’t dramatic. They weren’t even well-written.

But they were honest.

And honesty, especially the kind you write when no one’s watching, has a way of hitting where it hurts.

One of them said:

“I don’t want to be the kind of adult who forgets what it was like to be me.”

Another:

“Please don’t pretend to be okay. That’s how people disappear.”

And this:

“You are not hard to love. I hope you believe that someday.”

I cried. I won’t pretend I didn’t.

Because the truth is—I’d forgotten her.

The girl who believed in words and hope and healing.

The girl who warned me.

There are so many things I wish I had written in the years I stayed silent.

I wish I had told myself that healing isn’t a straight line.

That good days don’t mean the bad ones are gone.

That asking for help isn’t weakness—it’s bravery in disguise.

I wish I had reminded myself that being soft in a sharp world is a kind of strength.

That some people will misunderstand your silence, but the right ones will sit in it with you.

That your story doesn’t end in the middle of the page.

So I wrote a new letter last night.

The first in years.

It wasn’t long.

Just a few lines, written in a quiet moment between exhaustion and clarity.

“You made it this far. That’s enough. Keep going.”

And then I signed it:

— Me

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but maybe you should write yourself a letter too.

Not the perfect version.

Not the filtered one.

Just the one that tells the truth.

Even if no one else ever reads it…

You might need it someday.

Because sometimes, the person who saves you—is you,

from the past.