Loving the Version of Me That Didn’t Make It

We often celebrate the parts of ourselves that arrived—the achievements, the growth, the glow-up after the storm. But what about the versions of us who didn’t make it? The selves who held big dreams that didn’t unfold, who gave their all and still fell short, who stayed hopeful until they couldn’t anymore?

I used to run from those past versions of me. I was embarrassed by them—the girl who stayed too long in the wrong places, who tried too hard for love that didn’t return, who didn’t know what she knows now. I buried her in timelines and distance, trying to rewrite my story without her in it.

But lately, I’ve realized: she deserves love too.

Not because she was perfect, but because she kept going. Because she tried. Because she believed. And because without her, I wouldn’t be here.

The Versions That Faded in the Process

There were many versions of me that didn’t survive the journey to here.

The me who thought success meant people-pleasing.

The me who shaped herself to be chosen.

The me who thought burnout was a badge of honor.

The me who feared saying “no” because she didn’t want to disappoint.

The me who clung to timelines that weren’t hers.

They each carried hopes. They worked hard. They weren’t weak—they were just learning.

When I look back now, I see not failure, but fierce devotion. I see a heart that kept beating, even when it was breaking. A mind that kept dreaming, even when doors closed.

Why We Struggle to Love Who We Used to Be

It’s easy to love the version of ourselves who got it “right.” The one who healed, walked away, succeeded, or found peace.

But the earlier versions? The ones who didn’t yet know better? They’re harder to hold with compassion. They remind us of our vulnerability. Our mistakes. Our unfiltered humanity.

We’re told to “move on,” to become unrecognizable from our past. But in doing that, we often abandon the very parts of us that made the becoming possible.

Growth doesn’t require shame. It calls for tenderness.

Rewriting the Narrative

Instead of labeling my past self as naïve or broken, I’ve started telling a different story:

She was brave.

She didn’t have all the answers, but she showed up anyway.

She made choices with the tools she had.

She endured, even when no one saw the weight she carried.

She was enough, even before the healing began.

When I shifted that narrative, something cracked open. I no longer saw a version of me I needed to erase. I saw someone worthy of my gratitude.

The Grief We Carry for Who We Could Have Been

There’s a quiet grief that lives in the versions of ourselves we had to let go of.

The career path that never took off.

The relationship that didn’t last.

The passion we once felt and lost along the way.

The younger self who believed things would unfold differently.

Loving those parts of ourselves means allowing the grief to exist. Not as regret, but as reverence. As acknowledgment of everything we gave, even when it didn’t lead where we hoped.

That grief? It doesn’t make us weak. It means we cared deeply. And that’s beautiful.

Carrying Them Forward, Gently

I’ve come to believe that we don’t need to leave our past selves behind to move forward.

We can carry them with us—not as weights, but as witnesses. They remind us of how far we’ve come. Of what it took. Of how resilient we were, even in the dark.

Loving the version of me that didn’t make it means:

Letting her rest without resentment.

Speaking to her kindly in my mind.

Thanking her for trying, for believing, for holding on.

And letting her know she was never a failure—just a part of the process.

A Love Letter to My Past Self

If I could sit across from the version of me who didn’t make it, I’d say this:

You didn’t have to earn love to be worthy of it.

You were allowed to outgrow what once felt safe.

Your softness was never a weakness.

Even when you felt lost, you were becoming.

And I am so proud of you—not for what you achieved, but for how hard you tried.

Loving the Ones Who Tried

There are versions of all of us that didn’t arrive at the finish line.

They faltered. They rerouted. They fell apart.

But they laid the foundation. They did the heavy lifting. They softened us, sharpened us, made us question everything so we could rebuild with truth.

They deserve our love. Our gentleness. Our thanks.

Final Thoughts: Love Is Retroactive

Growth doesn’t mean disowning who you used to be. It means finally loving that person because of their imperfections, not in spite of them.

The version of you who didn’t make it?

Love them anyway.

Thank them for surviving what they did.

For not giving up.

For believing long enough to get you here.

They are not your shadow. They are your roots.