Dear Future Me

There’s a strange freedom in this moment.
Not joy exactly — more like the moment you exhale after holding your breath for years.
The grief is real. So is the weight.
But so is the quiet voice inside me that says: “We’re going to get there.”

Dear future me,

You didn’t get here by chance.
You built this from pain, from hunger, from sleepless nights and silent grief.

You shed the weight of other people’s projections, not just the pounds on your body.

You stopped shrinking to be palatable.
You stopped overeating to fill the spaces others refused to hold.

And look at you now — balanced, grounded, and free.

You kept going. Even when it was slow.
Even when it was lonely.
Even when you weren’t sure if you were healing or just surviving.

And that’s why you’re here now, living the life your younger self only dreamed might be possible.

Keep going. You’re closer than you think.

I still feel the tug sometimes — the guilt, the wish that it could have been different.
But I’m not bargaining for love anymore. I’m not feeding myself crumbs and calling it connection.
I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m learning how to give myself what I was never given.

The weight will start to fall away — not because I hate my body, but because I’m not carrying their pain anymore.
Bit by bit, I’m letting go.
Not because I’m healed — but because I’m healing.

That’s enough. That’s everything.