I MET HER AGAIN….

I met my younger self today—

she was twelve, in sixth grade,

all awkward limbs and silent prayers

wrapped in oversized sleeves.

She didn’t smile when she saw me.

She looked me up and down,

as if checking for bruises

only she would know to look for.

“You’re still here?” she asked,

like it was the unlikeliest miracle.

And I wanted to cry

because I remembered—

God, I remembered.

That was the year I first whispered

“I don’t want to be here anymore”

into my pillow,

like a secret too heavy to carry

but too dangerous to say aloud.

I knelt beside her,

and in that silence between us

I felt the weight she used to wear

like a winter coat that never came off.

She didn’t know

we’d make it past the nights

where sleep felt like mercy,

past the mornings

where getting out of bed

felt like betrayal.

She didn’t know

that the future she feared

wasn’t perfect—

but it was possible.

I told her:

Yes, we made it.

Somehow.

Even when it didn’t make sense.

Even when the voices screamed

that it never would.

We made it.

She looked at me like she wanted proof.

So I showed her

the scars that had faded

and the ones that hadn’t.

I told her how the hurt didn’t vanish—

but changed shape,

got quieter,

became something I could carry

instead of something that carried me.

I told her

about the 3 a.m. battles we won

by doing nothing but breathing.

How breathing—just that—

was defiance.

I told her

how we learned to live

one tiny choice at a time—

to brush our teeth,

to drink water,

to say “not today”

when the thoughts came like storms.

She asked if it ever got easy.

I laughed a little.

“No, but it gets… different.

And sometimes beautiful.

And sometimes boring.

And both of those are worth staying for.”

She frowned—

not because she didn’t believe me,

but because she wanted it so badly

to be true.

So I told her:

You’re not broken.

You’re surviving.

And that’s a kind of brilliance

they don’t teach in classrooms.

I told her

about the days we danced in the kitchen

just because we could.

About the friends we hadn’t met yet

who would say our name like it mattered.

About the art we’d make

from all the nights we thought would end us.

I told her

that being alive

wasn’t just the hardest thing—

it was the bravest.

And as I spoke,

she began to cry

because she didn’t know

it was possible

to be proud of herself

for simply staying.

And I cried too—

because I forgot

how much it hurt

to be that small

and carry a world

that never felt safe.

We sat there together,

me and the girl who thought

we’d never see 21.

She didn’t say much after that.

But she smiled,

and I realized

that maybe she needed to see me—

just as much as I needed to see her.