to my younger self, with love
i scrolled through my old tumblr posts today.
and god…
i forgot how much i used to hurt.
i forgot how loud the silence felt.
how every word i wrote back then was a cry — quiet, but desperate.
post after post of wanting to disappear,
of giving up,
of not believing there was anything left for me.
it was heartbreaking to read.
like looking into the eyes of a version of me who had already accepted that she wouldn’t make it.
and i sat there… just staring.
a lump in my throat.
because she was real.
she was me.
and she was tired.
how did i survive that?
what kept me going, even when i swore i couldn’t anymore?
and yet — here i am.
somehow, i stayed.
somehow, something in me held on.
i gave life another chance.
not in one big, cinematic moment… but through small, quiet choices.
the kind no one saw but me.
i started listening to myself.
i started being kinder to myself.
and somewhere along the way…
i started living again.
not just existing.
not just enduring.
i began to find beauty again.
in little things.
in messy rooms and warm drinks.
in sunlight on the floor.
in music that made my chest ache in the best way.
in people who saw me without asking me to be softer or smaller.
but the grief…
the grief is still here, isn’t it?
some days it knocks the wind out of me.
some days, it’s just a quiet ache.
and that’s okay.
i’ve learned we don’t get over grief —
we grow around it.
we carry it with us.
we learn how to laugh while still holding the sadness.
and maybe… that’s a kind of strength too.
there’s another ache that lingers too —
the one about family.
do you remember how much you used to crave that?
that deep, warm bond you saw other people have with their parents, siblings, cousins.
you used to envy them quietly —
wondering what it felt like to feel safe in that kind of love.
you still do sometimes, don’t you?
but life gave you something else —
not what you wished for, but maybe what you needed.
you were given friends who chose you.
who stayed.
who love you in a way that feels honest and real.
and maybe family isn’t always where we come from.
maybe, sometimes, it’s who we find along the way.
the ones who walk with us through all the hard things — and stay.
do you ever stop and realise how far you’ve come?
you’re sitting at your desk now,
doing work you enjoy,
surrounded by kind people.
you eat what you want.
you laugh again.
you travel.
you try new things.
you fall in love with little moments.
your 23-year-old self wouldn’t believe any of this.
she wouldn’t even know it was possible.
what would she say, if she saw you now?
would she cry?
would she be proud?
would she feel hope again?
and then there are the people who didn’t stay.
some left quietly.
some drifted away without reason.
some… you simply outgrew.
and that used to shatter you, didn’t it?
you’d spiral, overthink, blame yourself for everything.
but now — you’ve softened.
you understand that not everyone is meant to stay.
and maybe that’s not a loss.
maybe that’s just life.
have you forgiven yourself for the things you didn’t know back then?
because yes — you’ve made mistakes.
held on too tightly.
spoken in anger.
but you’ve also learned.
you’ve grown.
you’ve taken responsibility for your part.
and that kind of honesty?
that’s not weakness.
that’s peace.
you’ve lived alone for almost four years now.
and in that space, you’ve become your own friend.
you’ve learned how to enjoy your own company.
how to sit with your thoughts.
how to make a home out of yourself.
but sometimes —
do you feel yourself slipping too far into that quiet?
you know solitude can be beautiful,
but it can also be dangerous if you stay there too long.
you know the difference now —
between peace and isolation.
and that awareness?
that’s growth too.
these days, you’re learning to be grateful.
not loudly. not performatively.
just softly.
genuinely.
for morning coffees.
for safe people.
for nights that don’t hurt.
for the way you keep showing up — even when no one claps for it.
because happiness doesn’t always arrive like a celebration.
sometimes it comes in quiet moments.
in deep breaths.
in knowing that you stayed.
and hope —
hope shows up quietly too.
not with fireworks.
but with warmth.
and when it does…
please let it in.
