I was gentle in a world that often mistakes gentleness for weakness. I believed love had to be earned, perfection was protection, and being “enough” was something just outside my grasp. Somewhere along the way, a quiet fear settled in, that without perfection, I might be undeserving of love or life.
So if I could write a letter to my younger self, I would write it in the way one approaches a sleeping child, quietly, reverently, with tenderness. 
I would sit beside her and let the world soften before I spoke. 
Not because the words are difficult, but because they carry a lifetime of love, grief, and understanding.

Dear my younger self,
I see you.
I see how carefully you move through life, how often you replay conversations, searching for reassurance that you were kind enough, strong enough, intelligent enough, good enough, humble enough, loveable enough.
Let me tell you this now, before the world tries to convince you otherwise:
You are enough. You always have been.
Your worth is not shaped by approval. It does not rise or fall with how you are perceived. Nothing anyone says or does can add to or diminish what already lives within you.
You think life will arrive with answers neatly timed, that certainty will greet you if you follow the rules closely enough.

But life is unruly and wild.

It bends without warning.

It pauses.

It breaks you open.

This is not failure, this is becoming.
There is something you must know about trust. You give it freely, instinctively, believing others meet the world with the same purity you do. That innocence is precious, but it will be wounded.
 
When you are still so young, someone will take something from you that you did not offer, crossing a line that should never have been touched.
 
The aftermath will be confusing and devastating. 
You will feel fear, shame, and a heaviness you cannot name.
That moment will fracture your sense of safety and alter the way you move through the world. 
It will shape you, not because you were weak, but because you survived something no child should ever carry.
And still, you will endure.
From that heartbreak, you will learn discernment. You will learn boundaries. You will learn that trust is sacred and must be earned. 
The pain will never be justified, but the wisdom you grow from it will become part of your strength.

One day, you will learn to trust again, not blindly, but bravely, with clarity and self-respect.
There is a grief coming, too, one that settles quietly into your bones. Losing your dad will age you overnight. You will ache for his voice in moments he should have witnessed, for guidance you can no longer reach for. That loss will never fully leave you.

Please remember this, grief is not something to overcome. 
It is something you learn to carry. 
And the depth of your sorrow will always mirror the depth of your love.
Your body will one day falter in ways you did not expect. Illness will humble you, frustrate you, strip you of certainty. You will need help and you will hate that need.
 But listen closely, accepting care is not weakness. 
It is humanity. 
You are not required to be strong to be worthy.
Vulnerability will become your quiet superpower. You will learn that softness invites connection, and that asking for support is an act of courage. The world does not need you hardened, it needs you to be you.
Love will never be something you have to chase. 
It will find you, recognise you, and stay. 
You will grow beside Mark, your teenage sweetheart, in a love that feels written into your bones and bound by something deeper than time, an unbreakable love shaped by loyalty, patience, and choice. 
He will be your saviour when you are lost, your guide when the path is unclear, your best friend in every season. 
His love will be unconditional, steady, fierce, and unwavering. 
With him, you will understand what it means for two souls to inhabit one life. 
He will be your home, your heart, your everything.
And then there will be another battle you never imagined you would fight.
The longing to become a mother will lead you down a long, aching road. 
A road paved with waiting and hoping, with injections and hospital visits, with pain layered upon disappointment. 
There will be years filled with heartbreak, moments where your body feels like it has betrayed you, moments where hope feels too heavy to hold.
You will grieve children you haven’t yet met.

You will question your worth in new and painful ways.

You will wonder if wanting this so deeply is foolish.
But hear me, this will not break you.
That road, as cruel and exhausting as it will be, will lead you somewhere sacred. 
It will all work out. 
And one day, you will hold your sons, and every needle, every tear, every unanswered prayer will make sense.

A mother’s love for her sons will rise in you like nothing you have ever known, fierce, protective, endless. It will heal places in you you didn’t even know were wounded.

It will be worth all the heartbreak.
There will be moments you feel unseen, even in a crowded room. In those moments, turn inward with kindness. Speak to yourself the way you wish others would. 
Let gentleness be your refuge.
You will worry about comparison, about beauty, about measuring up. But beauty has never lived in perfection. 
It lives in your empathy, your compassion, your quiet resilience. 
It glows most when you choose tenderness over bitterness, softness over armor.
You carry guilt that was never yours to hold.
 
You absorb emotions that are not your responsibility.
 You are allowed to put that down.
 You are allowed to rest.
 You are allowed to take up space. You will change. You will shed versions of yourself that once kept you safe. 
Growth will feel like loss before it feels like clarity.
 
Trust the woman you are becoming, she is shaped by every joy, every wound, every survival.
There will be nights soaked in tears and mornings heavy with doubt. But there will also be laughter that surprises you, peace that arrives quietly, and gratitude that makes it all make sense.

Life will give you beauty you cannot yet imagine.
If I could place this letter into your hands, I would leave you with this:
You are enough.

When you are grieving.

When you are tired.

When you need help.
You are stronger than you know, softer than you allow yourself to be, and more loved than you will ever realise.
Keep going.

I am proud of you.
Yours always,

Your future self.

💌