if i could tell my younger self something for every age she’s been, here’s what i would tell her;
at 1 you are just a heartbeat learning the rhythm of your own breath. the world is still a gift you haven't learned to unwrap.
at 2 your hands are sticky with joy. everything you touch belongs to you. cherish the dirt under your nails. it is the only kind of "dirty" the world will let you be without judging your character.
at 3 you think the sky is just a blue blanket. i wish i could let you sleep under it forever.
at 4 you are a collection of "why" and "how." never stop asking. because the answers are coming, even the ones you won't like.
at 5 you drew a sun in the corner of every page. remember this because someday the world will feel very dark, and you will have to be your own light.
at 6, you fell asleep in your father’s arms. remember this because someday someone will try to make your body feel like a place that doesn't belong to you, and you must remember you were born to be safe.
at 7 you decided there was too much of you to be loved. i want to reach back and break every glass in that house before you can find a reason to start disappearing. you are seven. your body is a vessel for your soul to dance in, not a math problem to be solved by subtraction.
at 8 your grandma baked you a cake just because you were there (even though you were there every day). remember this because someday the kitchen will be quiet, and you will have to learn to find the sweetness without her.
at 9 you became the girl who carries the weight for everyone else. you learned how to be small, how to be quiet, how to be the glue when everything else was shattering.
at 10 this is the last year before the noise gets loud. breathe in the quiet. you are enough exactly as you are. please don’t let them hurt you.
at 11 the hallway feels like a gauntlet. their words are just bruised fruit they are throwing at you because they don’t know how to handle the taste of their own bitterness.
at 12, middle school is a fever dream. you learned that people can be cruel just because they are bored. you started to believe the things they whispered. you are not the things they whisper. you are the girl who survives the whispering.
at 13 the screen is a shield. online school is a soft place to land when the world feels too sharp to touch. it’s okay to hide until your skin grows back.
at 14 i am so sorry about the trust we gave to a wolf- we didn’t know he was one. i am so sorry about the 10,000 people screaming in a room where you were supposed to be safe. you learned too early what it feels like to wait for a sound that never comes.
at 15 you decided the pain inside needed a map, so you put it on your arms. but then came the boy. and then came the orange. he didn't just see the bruises; he offered to help you peel them away. for the first time, the fruit wasn't bitter. it was sweet. it was shared.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 6:21 PM UTC
if i could tell my younger self something for every age she’s been, here’s what i would tell her;
at 1 you are just a heartbeat learning the rhythm of your own breath. the world is still a gift you haven't learned to unwrap.
at 2 your hands are sticky with joy. everything you touch belongs to you. cherish the dirt under your nails. it is the only kind of "dirty" the world will let you be without judging your character.
at 3 you think the sky is just a blue blanket. i wish i could let you sleep under it forever.
at 4 you are a collection of "why" and "how." never stop asking. because the answers are coming, even the ones you won't like.
at 5 you drew a sun in the corner of every page. remember this because someday the world will feel very dark, and you will have to be your own light.
at 6, you fell asleep in your father’s arms. remember this because someday someone will try to make your body feel like a place that doesn't belong to you, and you must remember you were born to be safe.
at 7 you decided there was too much of you to be loved. i want to reach back and break every glass in that house before you can find a reason to start disappearing. you are seven. your body is a vessel for your soul to dance in, not a math problem to be solved by subtraction.
at 8 your grandma baked you a cake just because you were there (even though you were there every day). remember this because someday the kitchen will be quiet, and you will have to learn to find the sweetness without her.
at 9 you became the girl who carries the weight for everyone else. you learned how to be small, how to be quiet, how to be the glue when everything else was shattering.
at 10 this is the last year before the noise gets loud. breathe in the quiet. you are enough exactly as you are. please don’t let them hurt you.
at 11 the hallway feels like a gauntlet. their words are just bruised fruit they are throwing at you because they don’t know how to handle the taste of their own bitterness.
at 12, middle school is a fever dream. you learned that people can be cruel just because they are bored. you started to believe the things they whispered. you are not the things they whisper. you are the girl who survives the whispering.
at 13 the screen is a shield. online school is a soft place to land when the world feels too sharp to touch. it’s okay to hide until your skin grows back.
at 14 i am so sorry about the trust we gave to a wolf- we didn’t know he was one. i am so sorry about the 10,000 people screaming in a room where you were supposed to be safe. you learned too early what it feels like to wait for a sound that never comes.
at 15 you decided the pain inside needed a map, so you put it on your arms. but then came the boy. and then came the orange. he didn't just see the bruises; he offered to help you peel them away. for the first time, the fruit wasn't bitter. it was sweet. it was shared.
