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To my younger self –

I see you. All of you. The 5-year-old with big dreams, the 13-year-old hiding her pain, the 18-year-old craving love, the 30-year-old barely holding on, the 40-year-old learning to rest, and the 49-year-old woman who’s about to turn 50 and is finally learning to breathe.

Let me tell you something. It’s never too late.

To the 5-year-old me:

Secrets and lies started before you were even born. They were whispered in rooms you weren’t allowed in and carried into your life like ghosts. Eventually, those lies grew into stories that even the adults began to believe. You will face abuse in many forms: physical, emotional, and the kind that makes you question your worth before you even know what worth means. You’ll see things a little girl should never see. You’ll be forced to grow up while still holding your baby dolls.

But you will keep pushing forward. You’ll sing songs to yourself to stay calm. You’ll pretend the world is safe, even when it isn’t. And somehow, through all of it, you’ll still have a heart full of hope. That hope will carry you when nothing else can.

You are not what happened to you. You are something wild and strong and made to survive.

To the 13-year-old me:

Oh, sweet girl. You’re so tired of pretending everything is okay. You’ve mastered the art of smiling when your heart is breaking, but I know how loud the silence is when you’re alone. Those secrets you’re carrying aren’t yours to hold. The pain that started so early in your life is not your identity. You are not broken. You are just wounded.

And I know this is the age where the darkness started whispering louder. Suicidal thoughts creep in, telling you there’s no way out. You feel invisible and heavy at the same time. Bullies at school make you question your worth, and the ones who should protect you don’t always see your pain. You think ending it might be easier than surviving it.

But listen to me.

There’s more pain coming. I won’t lie to you. You will face betrayal, heartbreak, injustice, and loss that feels unbearable. But you will bear it. You will carry it and still rise. You will fall hard, but you will get back up again and again. And one day, those cracks you’re so ashamed of will be where the light gets in.

It’s okay to ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And one day, you’ll find out how many people need to hear that truth from you.

Hold on, baby girl. You are going to become someone you never imagined. Stronger. Softer. Still standing.

To the 18-year-old me:

You think love will save you. I know that. You’re chasing it like it’s oxygen, trying to fill all the cracks with someone else’s attention. You think if someone just picks you, the aching will stop. But you don’t need to be chosen to matter. You already do.

But the hurt is just beginning. You’ve already lost your brother to cancer and your father to suicide. Your heart is going to break in ways you never expected. But in about a year, God will send you a gift that will change your life forever: your daughter. She will be the reason you breathe. The reason you keep going when everything else falls apart.

And while you’re trying to raise her, you will lose your mother. You will be pregnant when she dies, and the grief will come in waves so deep you’ll wonder if you’ll survive it. People you love will continue to hurt you. Trust will become a fragile thing. And those suicidal thoughts you’ve battled since childhood will grow stronger with every storm.

But stay strong. You have no idea how many people your survival will save one day. You are not too far gone. You are just beginning.

To the 30-year-old me:

You’re in pieces and you’ve been pretending not to be for years. You’ve been in survival mode, functioning on fumes, burying your pain under ambition, medication, alcohol, and the illusion of control. You smile in public and cry in private. You try to outrun the guilt, the shame, and the mess you swore you’d never become. And you’ve convinced everyone you’re fine, even as you fall apart behind closed doors.

You’re trying so hard to rebuild what life, choices, and betrayal shattered. Divorced. Convicted. Depressed. You feel like your life is over. Like your name has been permanently stained. Like you’ve lost everything that ever made you feel like you were somebody.

And yes, you will make mistakes that will impact the rest of your life. You will lose love. You will gain love. And then you’ll lose again. Friends will start to betray you. The kind of betrayal that shakes you to your core. But the worst of that betrayal is still coming. It’s not here yet, but it’s already lurking.

But let me tell you something.

You are not your worst decisions. You are not your record. You are not the heartbreak, the headlines, or the hell you’ve walked through. You are still here. You are still standing, even when it doesn’t feel like it. And that matters more than you know.

Your downfall doesn’t define you. In fact, it’s where you’ll discover what you’re made of. This season will humble you. It will break your pride and your image of perfection. But in that breaking, something beautiful begins. Purpose. Real. Raw. Unapologetic. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that this wasn’t your ending.

It was your becoming.

To the 40-year-old me:

You’re still trying to prove you deserve to be here. Stop. You do. You’ve spent decades trying to undo the damage, be the best, do the most, stay ahead. And I get it. You’re terrified that if you stop, everything will fall apart. But sis, rest. You’ve earned peace. You don’t have to keep running.

You will eventually find love again. This time, it will be different. You’ll marry a man who allows you to be you. Fully. Flawed. Fierce. He won’t try to fix you or silence you. He will hold space for your story. It won’t be perfect, but it will be real. You’ll both bring trauma to the table, but you’ll also bring grace.

Your family will face deep pain. You will lose your last living sibling, your brother. And that grief will hit different. It will shake something in you that had already been cracked by everything before.

And still, in that darkness, you will find light. You’ll be blessed with two beautiful grandsons, little pieces of heaven that remind you joy still exists.

Total forgiveness will come from your bonus son, the one you thought you lost. And your daughter? She will become your best friend, your lifeline, your mirror. She will see the real you and love you anyway.

Work will still be your passion. Family will still be your everything. But the trick is learning to balance them. Don’t let drama consume you. Don’t let bitterness root in your soul. Fight back. Choose peace. Protect your purpose.

Your story isn’t over. In fact, it’s just starting to get good.

To the 49-year-old me:

You’ve made it through things that were supposed to destroy you. You’ve outlived your shame, your guilt, your rock bottoms, and your fear. You still carry the scars, but you’ve stopped hiding them. And now, as you stand three months away from 50, you’re finally starting to understand something the younger versions of you never could. Peace doesn’t mean perfect. It means presence.

You’ve learned how to sit with pain without becoming it. You’ve learned how to hold joy without expecting it to disappear. You’ve learned to laugh again, really laugh, even when life is heavy. You are no longer defined by what broke you. You are defined by what you’ve built in the aftermath.

This version of you is softer, stronger, wiser, and finally free.

And when you turn 50, I need you to live life to its fullest. Sell everything. Move to Florida. Sit in the sun. Start fresh. Watch sunsets. Walk barefoot. Write your story. Love yourself like you never have before. Let go of the weight you were never meant to carry. Let joy win.

She’s not done yet. But for the first time, she’s not afraid of what comes next.

To every version of me that doubted her strength, look at us now.

We made it. Battered, yes. But not broken. Still healing, yes. But never hopeless.

With love,

Your future self