A Letter from My Future Self

Dear Me,

I remember this version of you.

Tired.
Tender.
Grieving not just what happened — but what never did.
Letting go of people who couldn’t meet you.
Questioning whether you were ever really loved.
Wondering if this ache would ever soften.

You’re not broken.
You’re not too much.
You’re not lost.

You’re becoming.

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I Know This Feels Like the End

I know you’re sitting in a kind of emotional fog.
Not despair.
Not hope.

Just space.
Unfamiliar space.
Like something has left but nothing has arrived.

You’re in the part of the story most people skip over —
the invisible becoming.

The part that doesn’t look like healing, but is.

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I Want You to Know What’s Coming

No, not specifics.
Not certainty.
But this:

• You will feel lighter. Not every day, but most days.
• You will be met — in ways that make past versions of love feel paper-thin.
• You will rest more often without guilt.
• You will build a life that doesn’t demand your performance.
• You will feel peace where the ache once sat.
• You will trust yourself — gently, steadily, deeply.

And not because you fixed everything.
But because you finally stopped running from anything.

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What You’re Doing Right Now Matters

Every time you sit with the grief instead of numbing…
Every time you walk away with self-respect instead of proving your worth…
Every time you stay soft when your instincts want to harden…

You’re shaping the ground I now stand on.

You’re giving me roots.

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I Don’t Need You to Be Perfect

I don’t need you to be healed tomorrow.
I just need you to keep showing up — honestly.
With your sadness.
With your confusion.
With your small glimmers of joy.

That’s enough.
That’s always been enough.

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With love from the future —
still soft, still human,
but no longer scared of her own reflection,

You.

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