The Day I Met the Version of Myself I’d Been Running From

The Day I Met the Version of Myself I’d Been Running From

Sometimes the hardest person to face is the one staring back in the mirror.

It was late afternoon when I found myself walking through the old part of the city, a place I hadn’t been in years. The streets were the same, lined with cracked sidewalks and fading murals, but something about them felt different—like they were holding memories I had long tried to bury.

I had no plan that day, no reason to be there, except maybe some subconscious pull. Maybe I wanted to remember who I used to be before life got messy, before I learned how to wear a smile like armor.

And then, it happened.

I saw her.

Sitting on a bench near the bookstore was a girl who looked exactly like me—but younger. She had the same restless eyes, the same nervous habit of biting her lip. It was like looking at my reflection years earlier, before the weight of expectations and mistakes had settled on my shoulders.

I froze.

Of course, it wasn’t really me. It was just a stranger. But the way she sat there, clutching a notebook to her chest, reminded me so much of the person I used to be—the dreamer who believed in possibilities, who thought she could change the world with words scribbled on a page.

Running From Myself

Life has a way of pushing us into survival mode. Bills, jobs, heartbreak, responsibilities—they chip away at us little by little until one day we don’t recognize who we’ve become.

For years, I’d been running from that version of myself. The one who wanted to write stories, chase adventures, fall in love without fear. Somewhere along the way, I told myself those things were childish, impractical, a waste of time.

I became someone who measured success by paychecks and approval instead of fulfillment. And yet, no matter how hard I worked, it was never enough. Because deep down, I knew I wasn’t being true to myself.

The Unexpected Conversation

Maybe it was fate or maybe it was madness, but I walked over to the bench.

“Nice notebook,” I said.

She smiled, shy but proud. “Thanks. I’m trying to write something. It’s not very good, though.”

And just like that, I was thrown back into my teenage bedroom, where I used to say the exact same words. I remembered the piles of half-finished journals, the fear of not being “good enough,” and the quiet hope that someday, someone would care about my words.

I wanted to tell her everything: that her writing mattered, that she would grow stronger, that the world would break her heart but she’d survive it. I wanted to tell her not to give up.

Instead, I just said, “Don’t stop. Even if you think it’s bad. Just keep writing.”

Her eyes lit up like I had just given her permission to dream. And in a way, maybe I had.

Facing the Mirror

After that moment, I couldn’t stop thinking about her—the girl on the bench who reminded me of me. I realized that I had been carrying around so much regret, so much shame for abandoning my younger self’s dreams. I thought letting go of those dreams would make life easier. Instead, it left me feeling hollow.

But here’s the truth: we can’t outrun the parts of ourselves we leave behind. They catch up to us eventually. Sometimes in the form of regret. Sometimes in the form of a stranger who feels eerily familiar.

That day, I decided I was done running.

Moving Forward

I went home, pulled out an old notebook, and started writing again. Not for money. Not for validation. Just for me.

The words didn’t come easily at first—they stumbled out awkwardly, messy and unpolished. But with every sentence, I felt a little more whole. It was like stitching together pieces of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

And maybe that’s the point. We don’t need to become new people to heal. We just need to return to the versions of ourselves we abandoned along the way and welcome them back home.

Final Reflection

We all have that version of ourselves we’ve been running from—the dreamer, the believer, the person who still had hope. Life teaches us to bury that part under practicality, fear, and responsibility.

But maybe, just maybe, the only way forward is to stop running. To sit down on the metaphorical bench and face ourselves.

Because the truth is, the person we’ve been avoiding might just be the one who can save us.