Every scar has a story. “Letter to My Younger Self” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who've walked winding roads—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone still figuring it out. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how setbacks shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From nurturing curiosity to embracing mentorship, each piece is a tribute to growth through lived experience.
Angela K, a Journalist, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self.
Dear Younger Self
Come closer.
Let me hold your shaking hands for a moment.
You’ve held so much alone, for so long, that even comfort feels unfamiliar.
I see the moment your world broke—the day Dad left and the air around you changed.
You didn’t just lose a father. You lost safety. You lost softness.
You lost the one person who made you feel small in a beautiful way.
From then on, you weren’t allowed to crumble.
You became the firstborn daughter—the one who doesn’t falter, the one who holds the line, the one who grows up too fast because life gave her no choice.
You learned to silence your tears because there was no room for them.
You learned to bury your fears because no one asked if you were afraid.
You learned to be “good,” “strong,” “responsible,” even when every part of you wanted to scream,
“Can someone please take care of me for once?” But no one did.
So you learned to take care of everyone else.
You became a child with adult hands— cooking, cleaning, protecting, filling the gaps left behind.
You carried the weight of an entire family while your own childhood slipped quietly through your fingers.
That’s why you don’t remember playing. Because you were never really allowed to play.
And the loneliness that settled in your chest? It followed you.
You grew up fearing love, fearing the ache of being left again.
So you left first. You ran at the first sign of danger.
You walked away without goodbye because that felt safer than being the one who’s abandoned.
I know you weren’t trying to be cold.
You were protecting the broken girl inside you—the one still waiting for her father to come home.
And through all of this… you never asked for help.
Not once. Not then. Not now.
You stitched your wounds in silence.
Held your breath through heartbreaks. Sorted every storm on your own.
You built a life out of sheer willpower, even when the ground beneath you kept shifting.
But listen— your solitude was survival, not stubbornness.
Your independence was protection, not pride. Your silence was a shield, not a personality.
I want to tell you something you should have heard a long time ago: You deserved to be held, not handled.
You deserved rest, not responsibility. You deserved softness, not survival.
And yet… you rose. You always rose. Even when shaking. Even when bruised.
Even when you felt invisible in your own life. You’ve grown into a woman who carries her history with power—a woman learning, slowly but bravely, that she does not have to walk alone anymore.
That asking for help is not weakness. That healing is not betrayal.
That vulnerability is not danger. And now, you are learning something even deeper: that open communication is not a threat but a bridge.
That reassurance is not a burden but a balm.
That speaking your truth out loud is part of the healing, and receiving gentle words in return is part of becoming whole.
You are learning that you deserve clarity, softness, honesty, and connections where fears can be voiced, where needs can be named, where love is not silent or uncertain.
I am so proud of you. For every step.
Every tear swallowed. Every boundary set. Every chapter survived. Every piece of yourself you’re now reclaiming.
And now as I look at you—the woman you’ve become, the woman who still rises every morning with hope stitched into her bones—
I can finally say it with certainty: I am an adult now… and I am becoming the person that little girl desperately needed, with communication that heals and reassurance that stays.
Everyone has a story worth sharing. If you’ve ever wished you could talk to your younger self—with wisdom, forgiveness, or clarity—we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might just be the encouragement someone else needs today. You may remain anonymous if preferred, but your truth matters. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experience. Join us in building a collection of life’s hard-earned lessons and gentle reminders.
Be part of this movement. Send your Letter to My Younger Self to: [email protected]
