Becoming the Woman My Younger Self Needed

Sometimes I wonder what my younger self would think if she could see me now. I imagine her sitting across from me, legs swinging from the edge of a chair, studying my face as if she were trying to decide whether I had become the person she thought I would. She would probably have a hundred questions. Where do you live? What do you do? Did you become a writer? Did you figure everything out?

I wish I could tell her that I did.

But I would be lying.

There are still mornings when I wake up unsure of what I'm doing. There are still dreams I haven't accomplished, friendships I have outgrown, doors I am waiting to open, and moments when I look around at everyone else and wonder if I'm falling behind.

But there is one thing I would tell her with certainty: I'm becoming someone you would be proud of.

Not because I have everything figured out, but because I'm learning how to be there for myself in the moments when I don't.

Growing up, I thought becoming an adult meant becoming certain. I imagined that one day I would wake up and know exactly who I was, what I wanted, where I was going, and how to get there. I thought confidence was something that arrived with age, as if twenty-one or twenty-two would magically unlock a version of me who no longer questioned herself.

Instead, adulthood has been much quieter.

It has been learning how to make decisions when no one can guarantee they are the right ones. It has been walking away from things that made me feel like I had to shrink myself to belong. It has been learning that not every friendship is meant to last forever and that losing people doesn't always mean you have failed them. It has been watching people I love move into seasons of life that I am not ready for yet and learning how to celebrate them without using their milestones as evidence against myself.

Most importantly, it has been learning how to speak to myself differently.

My younger self was incredibly hard on herself. She believed mistakes said something permanent about who she was. She thought being behind meant being less capable. She looked at other people's accomplishments and quietly wondered what was wrong with her.

I recognize her now because sometimes she still shows up.

She appears when I compare my life to someone else's. She appears when a goal takes longer than I expected. She appears when I don't feel productive enough, successful enough, talented enough, or certain enough.

For a long time, I thought becoming stronger meant getting rid of that version of myself.

Now I think it means learning how to sit beside her.

If she were here, I would tell her that she doesn't have to earn rest. That she doesn't have to be impressive to be worthy of love. That being sensitive isn't the same thing as being weak. That caring deeply about people is a beautiful thing, but she cannot spend her entire life abandoning herself to make everyone else comfortable.

I would tell her that some people will misunderstand her.

Let them.

Some people will leave.

Let them go.

Some dreams will change.

Let them.

Changing your mind does not mean you failed at becoming who you were supposed to be. Sometimes it means you finally gave yourself permission to become someone new.

I would tell her that success will not always look like a graduation, a promotion, a relationship, a published book, or a photograph that makes everyone say, "I'm so proud of you."

Sometimes success will be getting out of bed on a difficult morning. Sometimes it will be choosing discipline when motivation disappears. Sometimes it will be writing another page when you aren't sure anyone will ever read it. Sometimes it will be watching someone else receive the opportunity you wanted and genuinely being able to celebrate them.

And sometimes, success will simply be realizing that you are no longer the girl who needs everyone else to tell her that she's doing okay.

You can tell yourself.

I wish I could go back and give my younger self every answer she wanted. I wish I could tell her which friendships would last, which dreams would change, and which disappointments would eventually make sense. I wish I could promise her that everything would work out exactly the way she imagined.

But I can't.

And maybe that's the point.

She doesn't need me to give her a perfect future. She needs me to teach her how to live through an imperfect one.

So that is what I am trying to do.

I am learning to give myself the patience I once expected from everyone else. I am learning to celebrate progress that nobody else can see. I am learning that my life does not have to resemble anyone else's to be meaningful. I am learning to take up space without apologizing for it and to leave spaces where I have to become smaller to stay.

And perhaps most importantly, I am learning that I don't have to wait until I become the woman I imagined to be proud of the woman I am today.

My younger self needed someone who would tell her that she was enough before she accomplished anything.

So I am becoming that person.

She needed someone who would remind her that her life was not a race.

So I am learning to slow down.

She needed someone who would tell her that failure wasn't the opposite of becoming.

It was part of it.

And she needed someone who would stay.

So I'm staying.

I don't know exactly who I will be five years from now. I don't know which dreams will survive, which ones will change, or what unexpected chapters will find me along the way.

But I know this:

The little girl I used to be doesn't need me to have become perfect.

She just needs to know that I didn't abandon her along the way.

And when I look at the woman I am becoming, I think she would finally recognize herself in me.

The End.