To the little girl I used to be,
Maybe every version of us left little letters behind.
Maybe they sat quietly in journal pages, in prayers whispered into bedroom ceilings, in songs that hurt too much, or in thoughts we never said out loud.
A four-year-old leaving a note for an eight-year-old.
An eight-year-old leaving one for a hurting teenager.
A hurting teenager leaving one for sixteen.
An eighteen-year-old leaving one for twenty.
And now I’m twenty.
So I think it’s finally time to open them.
And answer them.
⸻
Age 4 — 2009
From four-year-old us:
“Why is everyone crying?”
“Where did Great Grandma Evelyn go?”
“When people leave, do they stay gone forever?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh, little girl.
You were so small.
Tiny hands.
Bright eyes.
A heart still believing dandelions were wishes waiting to happen.
And then we lost Great Grandma Evelyn.
Our first real goodbye.
Our first real heartbreak.
I know you didn’t understand it.
But love doesn’t disappear because people do.
People leave fingerprints on our hearts.
And hers stayed.
⸻
Age 8 — 2013
From eight-year-old us:
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Why does life feel different now?”
“Why does my heart feel confused?”
“Will things always feel this way?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No, sweet girl.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
You aren’t too sensitive.
You aren’t too much.
This was the year Daddy married our stepmom, and life started changing in ways we didn’t understand.
Mistakes were made.
People were hurting in ways they didn’t know how to handle.
And little by little it changed us.
It made us quieter sometimes.
It made us question ourselves sometimes.
It made us wonder if we needed to become smaller just to be loved.
But beautiful things happened too.
Our little brother officially became our little brother.
Our little sister was born.
And somehow our heart grew bigger.
Because even then—
you loved deeply.
⸻
Age 9 — 2014
From nine-year-old us:
“Why did Grandpa Gene leave?”
“Will I forget him?”
“Will someone stay?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You won’t forget him.
Grandpa Gene wasn’t just Grandpa Gene.
He was comfort.
He was warmth.
He was safety.
He was home.
And this same year Mommy married our stepdad.
And he did something he never had to do.
He stepped in.
He chose us.
He loved us.
He stayed.
And little girls remember the people who stay.
⸻
Age 12–13 — 2017–2018
From younger us:
“Why does everything feel heavier?”
“Why do I feel different?”
“Why do mirrors feel so mean?”
“Will I always feel lost?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh honey,
I know things got heavy.
I know our mind became loud.
I know our heart became tired.
We lost Great Grandma Pat while we were in Maryland.
And around then, our own heart started carrying heavier things too.
Mental health became exhausting.
Lonely.
Heavy.
And we fought mirrors.
We looked at ourselves and saw flaws before beauty.
But I wish I could sit beside you and tell you:
You were beautiful then.
Beautiful while hurting.
Beautiful while surviving.
Beautiful while trying.
⸻
Age 16 — 2021
From sixteen-year-old us:
“Am I making the wrong choice?”
“Am I allowed to choose myself?”
“Will things ever feel lighter?”
“Where are we going to go?”
“What if I choose the wrong future?”
“What if I’m not good enough for the things I dream about?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You were brave.
We left Daddy’s house carrying years of hurt and confusion and things we still didn’t know how to hold.
Leaving didn’t make us weak.
Leaving saved us.
And I know another fear was beginning to grow too.
The future.
College.
Trying to figure out where we would go.
Trying to decide who we wanted to become.
I know you sat wondering if there was a perfect choice somewhere and if choosing wrong would somehow ruin everything.
I know you felt pressure to figure out your whole life while you were still trying to figure out yourself.
But little girl—
you don’t have to have your entire future figured out at sixteen.
You don’t have to know every road before you start walking.
Sometimes life isn’t choosing one perfect path.
Sometimes it’s just taking the next step.
⸻
Age 18–19 — 2023–2024
From younger us:
“Do we ever find our people?”
“Do people stay?”
“Do we belong somewhere?”
“What if moving away changes everything?”
“What if we pick the wrong major?”
“What if everyone else knows what they’re doing except us?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh yes.
And God, I know you were scared.
Scared to move to college.
Scared to leave home.
Scared to pack our life into boxes and drive away from everything familiar.
Scared that changing a major meant failing.
Scared that everyone else somehow had life figured out while we were still standing there wondering what direction to walk.
I know you worried changing your mind meant you were falling behind.
But changing directions isn’t failure.
Growing isn’t failure.
Learning yourself isn’t failure.
And do you know what happens?
We find people.
Beautiful people.
Friends who text us just because.
Friends who sit beside us on hard days.
Friends who pray over us.
Friends who remind us that love isn’t always grand gestures.
Sometimes love is coffee.
Sometimes love is checking in.
Sometimes love is just showing up.
We found a church family at Lakeholm Church of the Nazarene.
We found our callings.
And now we get to pour into teenagers and kids who need someone—
someone safe.
Someone who stays.
Someone like we needed.
⸻
Age 20 — 2026
From every younger version of us:
“Do we become okay?”
“Do things get easier?”
“Do we ever leave our small town?”
“Do we stop hurting?”
“Do we become someone?”
From twenty-year-old us:
I’m still learning.
But I know this:
Pappy has dementia.
Pappy has Alzheimer’s.
Watching someone fade while they’re still here feels like grieving someone in slow motion.
And through every storm—
there was Granny.
Constant.
Steady.
Like a porch light left on.
Like home.
No matter how old we become—
we’ll always be her little girl.
Daddy has started showing back up too.
Slowly and carefully, we’re letting him back in.
We’re realizing people are complicated.
We’re realizing mistakes are complicated.
We’re trying to rebuild.
Trying to understand.
Trying to repair.
And we’re in therapy now.
Years ago we would’ve thought that meant we were broken.
Now I think it means we’re healing.
I know you wanted to grow up fast.
I know you wanted out.
I know you wanted to leave our small town.
Part of us still does.
But I’m learning something now:
Please don’t rush.
Life isn’t a movie.
You can’t fast forward it.
You can’t pause it.
You can’t rewind it.
Little siblings stop being little.
Grandparents grow older.
People leave.
People come back.
You only get this one.
So hold hugs longer.
Stay in kitchen conversations.
Watch sunsets until the sky turns dark.
Because now matters.
⸻
Letter to Tomorrow
From twenty-year-old us:
“Will we find love?”
“Will someone choose us and stay?”
“Will we have a family one day?”
“How will life change?”
“What good things are still coming?”
“How will our faith change?”
“Does life become everything we hoped?”
From twenty-year-old us, answering honestly:
I don’t know yet.
And I think younger us would’ve hated that answer.
Because we spent so much of our life wanting certainty.
Wanting to know how the story ends before we kept reading.
But maybe there is something beautiful about not knowing.
Maybe somewhere down the road there is love waiting.
The kind that stays.
The kind that feels safe.
The kind that feels like coming home.
Maybe one day we’ll hold a family of our own and look around and think:
“So this is what all those prayers were growing into.”
Maybe life changes in ways we never expected.
Maybe blessings show up wearing faces we haven’t met yet.
Maybe faith becomes less about having every answer and more about trusting God while we walk through questions.
And maybe life doesn’t become exactly what we hoped.
Maybe it becomes something different.
Something fuller.
Something softer.
Something more beautiful than we knew how to ask for.
With love always,
Your twenty-year-old self.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:34 PM UTC
To the little girl I used to be,
Maybe every version of us left little letters behind.
Maybe they sat quietly in journal pages, in prayers whispered into bedroom ceilings, in songs that hurt too much, or in thoughts we never said out loud.
A four-year-old leaving a note for an eight-year-old.
An eight-year-old leaving one for a hurting teenager.
A hurting teenager leaving one for sixteen.
An eighteen-year-old leaving one for twenty.
And now I’m twenty.
So I think it’s finally time to open them.
And answer them.
⸻
Age 4 — 2009
From four-year-old us:
“Why is everyone crying?”
“Where did Great Grandma Evelyn go?”
“When people leave, do they stay gone forever?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh, little girl.
You were so small.
Tiny hands.
Bright eyes.
A heart still believing dandelions were wishes waiting to happen.
And then we lost Great Grandma Evelyn.
Our first real goodbye.
Our first real heartbreak.
I know you didn’t understand it.
But love doesn’t disappear because people do.
People leave fingerprints on our hearts.
And hers stayed.
⸻
Age 8 — 2013
From eight-year-old us:
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Why does life feel different now?”
“Why does my heart feel confused?”
“Will things always feel this way?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No, sweet girl.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
You aren’t too sensitive.
You aren’t too much.
This was the year Daddy married our stepmom, and life started changing in ways we didn’t understand.
Mistakes were made.
People were hurting in ways they didn’t know how to handle.
And little by little it changed us.
It made us quieter sometimes.
It made us question ourselves sometimes.
It made us wonder if we needed to become smaller just to be loved.
But beautiful things happened too.
Our little brother officially became our little brother.
Our little sister was born.
And somehow our heart grew bigger.
Because even then—
you loved deeply.
⸻
Age 9 — 2014
From nine-year-old us:
“Why did Grandpa Gene leave?”
“Will I forget him?”
“Will someone stay?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You won’t forget him.
Grandpa Gene wasn’t just Grandpa Gene.
He was comfort.
He was warmth.
He was safety.
He was home.
And this same year Mommy married our stepdad.
And he did something he never had to do.
He stepped in.
He chose us.
He loved us.
He stayed.
And little girls remember the people who stay.
⸻
Age 12–13 — 2017–2018
From younger us:
“Why does everything feel heavier?”
“Why do I feel different?”
“Why do mirrors feel so mean?”
“Will I always feel lost?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh honey,
I know things got heavy.
I know our mind became loud.
I know our heart became tired.
We lost Great Grandma Pat while we were in Maryland.
And around then, our own heart started carrying heavier things too.
Mental health became exhausting.
Lonely.
Heavy.
And we fought mirrors.
We looked at ourselves and saw flaws before beauty.
But I wish I could sit beside you and tell you:
You were beautiful then.
Beautiful while hurting.
Beautiful while surviving.
Beautiful while trying.
⸻
Age 16 — 2021
From sixteen-year-old us:
“Am I making the wrong choice?”
“Am I allowed to choose myself?”
“Will things ever feel lighter?”
“Where are we going to go?”
“What if I choose the wrong future?”
“What if I’m not good enough for the things I dream about?”
From twenty-year-old us:
No.
You were brave.
We left Daddy’s house carrying years of hurt and confusion and things we still didn’t know how to hold.
Leaving didn’t make us weak.
Leaving saved us.
And I know another fear was beginning to grow too.
The future.
College.
Trying to figure out where we would go.
Trying to decide who we wanted to become.
I know you sat wondering if there was a perfect choice somewhere and if choosing wrong would somehow ruin everything.
I know you felt pressure to figure out your whole life while you were still trying to figure out yourself.
But little girl—
you don’t have to have your entire future figured out at sixteen.
You don’t have to know every road before you start walking.
Sometimes life isn’t choosing one perfect path.
Sometimes it’s just taking the next step.
⸻
Age 18–19 — 2023–2024
From younger us:
“Do we ever find our people?”
“Do people stay?”
“Do we belong somewhere?”
“What if moving away changes everything?”
“What if we pick the wrong major?”
“What if everyone else knows what they’re doing except us?”
From twenty-year-old us:
Oh yes.
And God, I know you were scared.
Scared to move to college.
Scared to leave home.
Scared to pack our life into boxes and drive away from everything familiar.
Scared that changing a major meant failing.
Scared that everyone else somehow had life figured out while we were still standing there wondering what direction to walk.
I know you worried changing your mind meant you were falling behind.
But changing directions isn’t failure.
Growing isn’t failure.
Learning yourself isn’t failure.
And do you know what happens?
We find people.
Beautiful people.
Friends who text us just because.
Friends who sit beside us on hard days.
Friends who pray over us.
Friends who remind us that love isn’t always grand gestures.
Sometimes love is coffee.
Sometimes love is checking in.
Sometimes love is just showing up.
We found a church family at Lakeholm Church of the Nazarene.
We found our callings.
And now we get to pour into teenagers and kids who need someone—
someone safe.
Someone who stays.
Someone like we needed.
⸻
Age 20 — 2026
From every younger version of us:
“Do we become okay?”
“Do things get easier?”
“Do we ever leave our small town?”
“Do we stop hurting?”
“Do we become someone?”
From twenty-year-old us:
I’m still learning.
But I know this:
Pappy has dementia.
Pappy has Alzheimer’s.
Watching someone fade while they’re still here feels like grieving someone in slow motion.
And through every storm—
there was Granny.
Constant.
Steady.
Like a porch light left on.
Like home.
No matter how old we become—
we’ll always be her little girl.
Daddy has started showing back up too.
Slowly and carefully, we’re letting him back in.
We’re realizing people are complicated.
We’re realizing mistakes are complicated.
We’re trying to rebuild.
Trying to understand.
Trying to repair.
And we’re in therapy now.
Years ago we would’ve thought that meant we were broken.
Now I think it means we’re healing.
I know you wanted to grow up fast.
I know you wanted out.
I know you wanted to leave our small town.
Part of us still does.
But I’m learning something now:
Please don’t rush.
Life isn’t a movie.
You can’t fast forward it.
You can’t pause it.
You can’t rewind it.
Little siblings stop being little.
Grandparents grow older.
People leave.
People come back.
You only get this one.
So hold hugs longer.
Stay in kitchen conversations.
Watch sunsets until the sky turns dark.
Because now matters.
⸻
Letter to Tomorrow
From twenty-year-old us:
“Will we find love?”
“Will someone choose us and stay?”
“Will we have a family one day?”
“How will life change?”
“What good things are still coming?”
“How will our faith change?”
“Does life become everything we hoped?”
From twenty-year-old us, answering honestly:
I don’t know yet.
And I think younger us would’ve hated that answer.
Because we spent so much of our life wanting certainty.
Wanting to know how the story ends before we kept reading.
But maybe there is something beautiful about not knowing.
Maybe somewhere down the road there is love waiting.
The kind that stays.
The kind that feels safe.
The kind that feels like coming home.
Maybe one day we’ll hold a family of our own and look around and think:
“So this is what all those prayers were growing into.”
Maybe life changes in ways we never expected.
Maybe blessings show up wearing faces we haven’t met yet.
Maybe faith becomes less about having every answer and more about trusting God while we walk through questions.
And maybe life doesn’t become exactly what we hoped.
Maybe it becomes something different.
Something fuller.
Something softer.
Something more beautiful than we knew how to ask for.
With love always,
Your twenty-year-old self.