A Letter to the Version of Me That Survived

Dear Me,

I don’t know where you are right now.

I don’t know how far in the future you’ve made it, or what version of us you're living.

But if you’re reading this… it means you survived.

And before anything else, I need to tell you — I am proud of you.

There were nights when I didn’t think we’d make it.

Nights when breathing felt borrowed.

When the silence in the room got so loud, it felt like it was screaming.

When the weight on your chest wasn't from anything physical, but from thoughts pressing down so hard they felt like they could shatter bone.

You remember those nights.

I know you do.

There were evenings where even the lightbulbs seemed too bright, like the world was too sharp and too close.

The walls whispered worries.

The ceiling muttered lies.

And the shadows wrapped around your voice, choking off your ability to ask for help.

Because how could you explain a pain that didn’t bleed?

I remember the morning we stopped recognizing ourselves in the mirror.

The reflection showed a stranger —

Eyes dulled.

Mouth set like stone.

A face shaped by surviving instead of smiling.

You were still there. Somewhere.

But buried.

Beneath layers of pretending.

Pretending to be okay. Pretending to be functional. Pretending to care.

And yet…

You didn’t stop.

Even when every part of you begged for stillness, for silence, for escape —

You kept going.

Even when joy felt like a foreign tongue, and love felt like a memory too distant to name —

You showed up.

You woke up.

You tried.

That’s what makes you extraordinary.

Not the days you flourished, but the days you didn’t —

and chose to live anyway.

You went through entire mornings where brushing your teeth felt like scaling a mountain.

You put on clothes that felt foreign to your skin.

You smiled at people who had no idea they were speaking to a war survivor.

Because that’s what this was.

A war.

Not with the world.

But with your thoughts.

With your past.

With the belief that you didn’t deserve love, or peace, or even breath.

I don’t know what saved you.

Maybe it wasn’t one thing.

Maybe it was a thousand tiny moments.

A raindrop on your cheek that reminded you the sky still touches you.

A dog wagging its tail at your feet like you were the best part of its day.

A lyric in a song that cracked something open.

A book.

A stranger’s kindness.

The smell of coffee.

A breeze that reminded you of being seven and safe.

Whatever it was — thank it.

Thank the moment that made you stay.

Because now, I hope, you’re doing more than just surviving.

I hope you’re dancing again.

Even if it’s in your kitchen. Even if it’s alone.

I hope you laugh until your stomach aches.

I hope you cry — not because you're broken, but because something moved you in a way you didn’t think possible anymore.

I hope you’ve forgiven yourself.

Not just for what you did — but for what you felt.

For being human. For carrying pain. For being overwhelmed.

None of that was wrong.

None of it made you weak.

It wasn’t your fault.

The sadness. The silence. The weight.

You didn’t choose the darkness.

But you chose to keep going.

And that makes you stronger than anyone will ever truly understand.

So if you ever find yourself slipping again —

read this.

Let it be your compass.

Let it remind you of how far you've come.

Of what it cost to be here.

Of how beautifully you rose from the quiet ruins of what almost ended you.

Because back here, in this chapter of doubt and darkness,

I believed in you.

Even when I cried myself to sleep.

Even when I couldn’t feel my own heartbeat.

Even when the world felt too sharp, and life felt too long.

Somewhere inside, there was a flicker —

a soft, stubborn knowing

that one day, you’d find me again.

And you did.

I love you.

I see you.

I am you.

And I’m proud.

Always,

—The version of you that almost didn’t make it, but kept the light on anyway.