The Version of Me I Had to Bury to Survive

There was a version of me I had to bury so I could keep living. Not because she was weak, but because she kept hoping in places that only taught her how to break. She trusted too deeply. She waited too long. She believed people would change just because she loved them harder. Letting her go was not easy.

She was the part of me that wrote long messages and never sent them. The part that stayed silent to keep the peace. The part that blamed herself whenever someone walked away. She apologized for things that were never her fault and carried guilt that was never hers to hold. I did not want to lose her, but I knew I could not survive if she stayed in charge.

So one night, I sat alone with every memory she carried and finally told the truth. I was tired. Tired of being strong for everyone else. Tired of answering I’m fine.when I was not. Tired of shrinking myself just to be easier to love. That version of me had learned how to endure, but she never learned how to rest. She thought love meant sacrifice. She thought loyalty meant silence. She thought strength meant staying. And I believed her for a long time.

But strength does not mean you suffer quietly. Love does not mean you disappear or lose yourself in the process. So I made the painful choice to bury her the version of me that had endured so much, that had carried burdens no one else could see. Not in anger. Not in shame. Not as a punishment for surviving. But in deep, quiet gratitude.

I thanked her for every night she stayed awake when the darkness was unbearable, for every tear she cried in silence when no one was there to comfort her. I thanked her for every time she held herself together when her world was falling apart, for every moment she bore heartbreak after heartbreak, carrying it alone so that others could remain unscathed

The new version of me was not loud or fearless. She was careful. She asked questions. She set boundaries. She walked away when something felt wrong. She did not try to be perfect. She tried to be honest. She learned that love does not feel like anxiety. She learned that peace is louder than chaos. She learned that not everything deserves access to her heart. And slowly, she started to feel lighter. Not because life became easier, but because she stopped carrying what was never hers.

I still visit the old version of me sometimes when I see something familiar in a stranger’s eyes, when a song reopens a closed door, when silence grows heavy in the dark. I whisper, Thank you.And she smiles, softly, from wherever she rests.

The person I am now is not unbreakable. But she is unashamed. She loves deeply, but she does not beg. She gives freely, but she does not waste herself. She feels everything, but she does not drown in it. The version of me I buried taught me how to survive. The version of me I am becoming is teaching me how to live.

If you are grieving your old self, that is okay. If you are becoming someone you do not recognize, that is okay. Growth feels like loss before it feels like freedom. You are not abandoning who you were. You are honoring her by becoming stronger. One day, you will look back with tears in your eyes and gratitude in your heart and realize you did not lose yourself. You saved yourself.

Burying the old me to embrace new growt