The Thing My Younger Self Would Never Believe About Me Now

The Thing My Younger Self Would Never Believe About Me Now

By Hasnain Shah

If I could sit across from my younger self—the one with scraped knees, trembling hopes, and a heart that bruised too easily—I think the first thing she would do is stare at me in disbelief. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just a kind of stunned, wide-eyed confusion, like she’s looking at a plot twist no story ever prepared her for.

Because the thing my younger self would never believe about me now is this:

I made it. I actually became someone I once thought was impossible.

I can picture her sitting on the edge of her childhood bed, the duvet covered in faded cartoon characters she’s long outgrown but still clings to for comfort. She’d look at adult-me with a mixture of hope and hesitation, as though afraid the future might confirm her darkest fears.

“You’re… okay?” she would ask.

And I would smile—not the polite, practiced smile I learned later in life, but the real one, the one that feels like sunlight cracking through heavy clouds.

“I’m more than okay,” I’d tell her. “I’m finally becoming who we always wanted to be.”

She wouldn’t buy it at first. My younger self was stubbornly cautious with good news, as if joy were a limited resource and she was already using more than her share. She’d cross her arms, bite her lip, and tilt her head the way she did when trying to decide whether someone was telling the truth.

“What about the things we’re scared of?” she’d ask. “Do they still feel as big?”

And here is where the conversation would get complicated. Because yes, some fears stayed big. Some even grew bigger with new responsibilities, new losses, new heartbreaks. But the difference is, I learned how to stand beside those fears without letting them swallow me whole.

“I still get scared,” I’d admit. “But now I know it doesn’t mean I can’t keep going.”

That’s what she wouldn’t believe—not that fear exists, but that I move anyway.

I would tell her how we learned to speak up without shaking. How we learned to walk away from people who treated us like we were optional. How we stopped apologizing for taking up space.

I’d tell her we learned to rest without guilt. To cry without shame. To love without losing ourselves.

She’d blink at me as if I’m describing a stranger.

“You mean we’re not… too much anymore?” she’d whisper.

“No,” I’d say gently. “We were never too much. We were just surrounded by people who made us feel that way.”

I think this is where she’d start to soften. Her shoulders would relax, and her eyes would shine with the slightest spark of relief.

Because my younger self spent years believing that being sensitive made her weak, that her dreams were unrealistic, that her voice didn’t matter. She was always waiting for someone to grant her permission to grow.

If she only knew she’d give that permission to herself someday.

I’d tell her about the small victories that became big ones. The first time we set a boundary and stuck with it. The first time we said no without overexplaining. The first time we looked in the mirror and didn’t criticize the reflection.

I’d tell her about the friendships built on trust instead of convenience, about the peace that comes from letting go of what wasn’t meant to stay.

I’d tell her that happiness doesn’t come with fireworks or grand revelations but in quiet moments—watering plants on a slow morning, choosing clothes that feel comfortable, laughing from the belly again.

She’d ask about the disappointments too. She was always curious about the things that didn’t go according to plan.

“Did we fail?” she’d ask.

“Of course we did,” I’d answer. “Many times. But we learned failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of it.”

With every word, I imagine her shifting closer, as if trying to see herself inside this future version she never dared to imagine.

Finally, she’d ask the question she’s been afraid to say out loud:

“Do we ever learn to love ourselves?”

And I’d take her small hand in mine, gently, firmly, lovingly.

“Yes,” I’d say. “Not all at once. Not perfectly. But beautifully. And honestly. And in ways that make life feel like ours again.”

My younger self would never believe who I am now—someone softer, stronger, steadier, wiser. Someone who didn’t have to become perfect to become worthy. Someone who grew into the kind of person she desperately needed.

She wouldn’t believe it.

But she would be proud.