What My Childhood Self Would Say to Me Now

What My Childhood Self Would Say to Me Now

Genre: Inspirational / Poets / Memoir

Form: A Letter from My 8-Year-Old Self

Dear Future Me,

Hi.

It’s me—well, it’s you, but when you were still short and had scabby knees and dreams the size of galaxies. I’m writing from the tiny corner of the world where everything still smells like crayons, dirt, and summer. Where a puddle can be the whole ocean, and monsters still live under the bed—some friendly, some not.

I found this dusty time-capsule in my imagination, and I thought maybe it could carry my words to wherever you are now. So... here I am. And I have a lot of questions.

First of all, do you still laugh the way I do? You know, with your whole belly and no care if it’s too loud or weird? Do you still climb trees when no one’s looking, or chase the wind when it’s stormy outside? I hope so. I really hope so.

Because sometimes I get scared that when I grow up, I might forget how.

Do you remember what it felt like to believe in magic? Not tricks, not illusions—real magic. Like how the moon follows you home, or how you could press your ear to the earth and hear things no one else could. Do you still believe in that? Or did the world teach you to stop?

I’m asking because grown-ups always look so tired. Their eyes look like they’re carrying invisible bags, like they’ve been crying in places no one sees. Do you look like that?

I don’t want us to become someone who gave up. Not on dreams, not on people, and especially not on ourselves.

Did we ever become an astronaut? Or a writer? Or a dolphin trainer? Or someone who eats pancakes for dinner just because we can? I had a lot of dreams. I didn’t care if they made sense. I just wanted to do all the things that made my heart go fast in the best way. Please tell me you did at least one of them. Please.

I know I asked a lot of “Do you still” questions. But I have a few “Why did you?” questions too.

Why did you stop dancing in the mirror when music played? Why did you stop talking to the stars like they were listening? Why did you let people make you small, just to make them comfortable?

I hope I’m wrong. I hope you didn’t stop.

Sometimes, when the grown-ups talked around me like I wasn’t there, I heard them say things like “She’s too sensitive” or “She’ll learn eventually.” I didn’t know what that meant. But I think they were warning me that life would try to make me tougher. I just want to say—please don’t confuse tough with cold.

It’s okay to feel things deeply. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to still love the people who left. I know I do.

Do you remember Grandma’s hands? They were always warm, and a little wrinkly, like crumpled paper that held too many stories. Did she stay long? Is she still around? If she’s not, do you still talk to her sometimes, when no one’s watching? I hope you do.

And hey, do you ever sit quietly and just... be? Like we used to when the sky turned pink and the grass made our arms itch? Back when we didn’t have phones or clocks in our heads. Just curiosity and a belly full of giggles. Please tell me we still make time for that.

Did you ever learn how to forgive? Dad? Yourself? I hope so. Carrying anger in your chest feels like holding a lit match too long.

Oh, and about the mirror—I hope you smile when you look into it. I hope you say kind things to yourself, like you would to me. Because I’m still in there, you know. Somewhere underneath all the bills and the news and the meetings and the broken things you try to glue back together.

I’m still here.

I’m the one who loved without rules. Who didn’t care if people thought I was weird. Who wore mismatched socks on purpose. Who drew superheroes and gave them names like "Kindness Girl" and "Captain Hope."

I’m the voice that still whispers, “Try again,” when you mess up. I’m the little hum in your chest when you hear a song from childhood. I’m the reason you still get that lump in your throat when you see someone being brave in a quiet way.

I want to tell you one last thing.

No matter how far you think you’ve wandered from who we were, you haven’t lost me. I’m not some innocent ghost that fades with age. I’m still here, beneath your scars and your sighs and your second chances.

And I still believe in you.

Love,

Me

(Age 8)

P.S. Next time you're scared to do something wild or wonderful or honest, just ask yourself:

“What would 8-year-old me do?”

Then do that.