A Letter To My Younger Self

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I know the loneliness you felt, the isolation that clung to you like a shadow. Alone in a quiet house, surrounded by silence. Alone in a crowded school, a sea of faces you could never truly connect with. Alone with thoughts that cut deep, whispers of worthlessness echoing in your mind every single day. You were trapped in your own world, a prison of your own making, surviving on sheer instinct. I see it now. I feel it. I feel you.

I remember how you were forced into endless tasks, meaningless and unending. “Dig a hole here,” he’d say, and you’d work all day, only for him to change his mind the next day: “No, one meter to the left.” How frustrating. How soul-sucking.

And when you tried to rest, exhausted and broken, you sat in silence, listening for footsteps, knowing that if you were caught resting, there would be hell to pay. You cried, little one, as your body screamed from the exhaustion, but it wasn’t just that. You had allergies—severe dust and grass allergies that you were made to believe were simply in your head. They weren’t. You weren’t faking it. You weren’t weak. You were sick.

I remember the cold winter mornings when you rode your bike to school, your fingertips frozen, blood red from the chill. The world didn’t care about your pain, but you carried on. You had to.

But what breaks me the most is how your smile was a signal to them that you weren’t working hard enough. How that spark of joy in your eyes was punished, taken away by those who should have protected it.

I remember how your body looked—skinny, ribs poking through—and how the teachers would pull you aside, asking if you were okay. But what could you say? No one cared enough to really ask. No one would’ve listened anyway. So, you lied, because what else was there to do?

I remember how you fought to earn a little pocket money, how you worked so hard to escape your reality, even if just for a few hours each weekend. But that money, that escape—it was never truly yours. You had to use it to buy school supplies because asking for the basics at home was too uncomfortable. Your needs were never the priority.

You were broken, but you didn’t break. You kept fighting, even after everything. You built your courage up, step by painful step, and when you finally spoke up, all you heard was: “You’re just a child. How could you remember?” That was it. That’s all she said. And that silence, it still haunts me.

Then came depression, and it became your constant companion. Hand in hand, you and depression grew up together. It was your friend, but it wasn’t a friend at all. The darkness crept in slowly, taking you further into itself. And no one noticed. No one cared. You suffered, and they looked away. The world had its own problems, and your pain didn’t fit into the narrative.

You were misunderstood, labelled: the “abused,” the “outcast,” the “problem.” They didn’t see the truth. They didn’t hear your cries. They didn’t understand that you were fighting every day to survive, to live, to exist.

You didn’t need praise. You didn’t need love, not from them. You needed to be—to be a damn kid, to live without the weight of the world on your shoulders. But you never got that.

I remember how proud you were of your martial arts, every little step forward filled with so much joy. But when it came time for your black belt, the one thing you worked so hard for—suddenly, the money was gone, the support vanished. It should have been a moment of celebration, but instead, it was taken from you, and you had to fight for it, again. But you did. You found a way. You earned that black belt, even though you were left to fend for yourself once more.

Do you remember the migraines? The day it all clicked for me—the day you were just a child, terrified and confused, when you didn’t know how to use a drill, and instead of guidance, you were punished, the back of the drill slammed into your head until you cried until you couldn’t anymore. And then, you were told you were over-reacting. But you weren’t. No one was there to see it, but you weren’t over-reacting. And we’re still dealing with the aftermath. I’m so sorry.

You were strategic even then, planning your way through the chaos. You wore the mask, hiding, blending in, so you wouldn’t be noticed. You survived by hiding the pain, by hiding you. You learned to adapt, to become a chameleon in a world that never cared.

Teenage years were filled with rage, but it wasn’t your own. It was theirs. You were stuck in the middle, a casualty of their battles, and it broke you. But you kept moving forward, even as the world beat you down.

You dealt with so much—cystic acne, the pain, the shame, and yet you still fought. You hated him. He hated you. And all you could do was tell yourself, “One day. One day.” You kept going.

You learned to love yourself, in spite of it all. Through discovering your sexuality, through realizing your beliefs. And when you found your voice and were told you were wrong, you fought back.

They knew you knew, and that terrified them.

You finished school, and you ran. God, you ran. And though there were no apologies, you didn’t need them. You chose yourself. You chose life. You chose to live, even when your father died, even after everything, you were still the scapegoat, the one they turned to when they needed to make themselves feel better.

But do you know how proud I am of you? You were scared, with nothing to your name, but you left. You made your life something beautiful. You are strong.

Today, I’m writing this letter to you because you need to hear it. You survived. Through everything—the self-harm, the abuse, the loneliness—you survived.

I’m proud of you. I love you. I appreciate you. I believe in you.

I know there are things you’ll never talk about, things that faded over time. But the one thing that remains, the truth that can’t be erased, is that you will never give up. You broke those generational curses. You created a life full of love. You wear those scars proudly because they show the world what you’ve overcome.

You didn’t let hate take root. You fought with love. And now, you’ve given me the life I always wished for. I am so, so grateful.

Oh, and the tattoos you always wanted? You got them. And that confusion about who you are? You’re Pagan, babe. You wear your pentacle proudly. And the boys? LGBTQIA+—that’s your community now, your family.

You grew up different, and you embraced it. You still think outside the box, and you’re damn good at it. You make memories now. You help people. You’re funny, sharp, and always ready with a comeback. Sure, it’s a trauma response, but I’m calling it a win.

You are kind. You are loved. You love yourself.

Life was never easy for you, but starting today, I’m sending you love. You are blessed. You have so much ahead of you.

Keep fighting. Keep going. You can do this.

And for those who hurt you? You don’t owe them forgiveness. You owe yourself the chance to live without their ghosts hanging over you.

I love you, my younger self. I know you’re still learning how to love yourself, but I’m here for us both. I’m loving you for us.

PS: We no longer eat animals. You’ll be shocked, but trust me, it’s for all the right reasons. And yeah, you’re Pan. But that’s a story for another time. We have a lifetime ahead of us.

Look out for the signs. I’m sending you love across time and space. Believe in magick. Believe in yourself. And remember, hate is foolish, but love is always kind.

I’ll see you in our dreams.

With all the love in the universe,
Your future self.