I’ve been thinking about her lately.
The person I was five years ago. Ten years ago. The girl who believed certain things about herself that I don’t believe anymore. The one who made decisions I wouldn’t make now. The one who stayed in rooms I’d walk out of today.
I used to look back at her with something close to shame.
What were you thinking? Why did you put up with that? Why didn’t you leave sooner? Why did you believe them when they said you weren’t enough?
I’d catalogue her mistakes like evidence. Proof that I’d been weak, foolish, naive. Proof that I should have known better.
It took me a long time to realize:
She didn’t fail. She carried me here.
The Girl Who Didn’t Know Yet
She didn’t know what I know now.
She didn’t know that love shouldn’t feel like begging. She didn’t know that exhaustion wasn’t a normal part of friendship. She didn’t know that her body deserved kindness, not criticism. She didn’t know that saying no was allowed. She didn’t know that she was allowed.
She was just doing her best with what she had.
And what she had was:
A nervous system wired for survival
A childhood that taught her love was conditional
A world that told her she was too much and not enough simultaneously
Absolutely no map for how to become herself
She was navigating fog without headlights. And she kept going.
Not perfectly. Not gracefully. Not without scars.
But she kept going.
And because she did, I get to be here. Writing this. Knowing what I know. Being who I am.
She didn’t fail me. She got me here.
A Story About the Jacket
I still have this old jacket from my early twenties. It’s beat up. The lining is torn. There’s a stain on the sleeve I could never get out.
I should probably throw it away. I don’t wear it anymore. It doesn’t even really fit.
But every time I think about getting rid of it, I pause.
That jacket kept me warm through some cold years. It was there for late nights and early mornings. It caught tears and coffee spills and rain. It didn’t do it perfectly—it’s stained and torn and worn thin in places.
But it did it. It showed up. It covered me when I needed covering.
That’s how I think about the old version of me now.
She’s not who I am anymore. She doesn’t fit the way she used to. She’s worn thin in places. But she showed up. She covered me. She got me through.
I don’t need to wear her anymore. But I don’t need to be ashamed of her either.
What We Get Wrong About Growth
We’re taught to think of growth as leaving someone behind.
The old you was wrong. The new you is right. The old you made mistakes. The new you knows better. The old you was weak. The new you is strong.
But that’s not how it works.
The old you wasn’t wrong—she was learning.
The old you wasn’t weak—she was surviving.
The old you wasn’t a mistake—she was a draft.
And every draft is necessary for the final version.
You don’t get to chapter ten without writing chapters one through nine. You don’t get to skip the messy parts. You don’t get to become who you are without first being who you were.
The version of you that didn’t make it? She made it. She made it all the way to you.
A Letter to Her
I wrote this recently. Maybe you need to write one too.
Hey. I don’t say this enough, but thank you.
Thank you for getting out of bed on the days it felt impossible. Thank you for staying in rooms longer than you should have—you learned what you wouldn’t tolerate because of it. Thank you for loving people who couldn’t love you back—you learned what love actually looks like because of it. Thank you for every wrong turn, every late night cry, every moment you felt lost and kept walking anyway.
You didn’t know what I know now. But you knew enough to keep going. And that was everything.
I’ve got it from here. Rest now.
A Question For You
Think about the version of you from five years ago. Ten years ago. Whenever.
She’s still in there somewhere. Not as who you are now—but as who carried you here.
Here’s what I want to ask:
What do you need to forgive her for?
Not the big things. The quiet things. The ways she didn’t know better. The ways she stayed too long. The ways she believed the wrong people. The ways she was hard on herself.
Just… see her. Not with shame. With tenderness.
She was doing her best. And her best was enough. It had to be. It’s what got you here.
What I’m Learning
I’m learning to stop apologizing for who I used to be.
I’m learning to thank her instead.
For staying when leaving felt impossible. For hoping when hope seemed stupid. For trying when trying felt pointless. For being exactly who she was—messy, scared, imperfect, brave—so I could become who I am.
She didn’t know the way. But she kept walking.
And because she did, I’m here.
Writing this. Knowing things she didn’t know. Being someone she would be proud of.
Not in spite of her. Because of her.
P.S. What’s one thing you want to thank the old version of you for? Just one. Reply and tell me. I’d love to know.
