How I Learned to Be Kind to My Past Self

How I Learned to Be Kind to My Past Self

For years, I spoke to my past self like she was a stranger I resented.

I blamed her for staying too long, for loving too hard,

for mistaking pain for passion.

I called her weak for freezing instead of fleeing,

for numbing instead of feeling,

for lying instead of shattering.

I thought if I punished her enough,

if I replayed the shame often enough,

maybe I could rewrite what happened.

But shame doesn’t cleanse —

it corrodes.

And every time I turned my anger inward,

I was only deepening the wound I was trying to heal.

The shift came quietly, not as an epiphany, but as a whisper:

What if she did the best she could with what she had?

It landed heavy.

Because I knew it was true.

The girl I used to be wasn’t careless or broken —

she was surviving the only way she knew how.

She built walls out of silence,

wore masks made of politeness,

and called it strength.

And maybe it was.

Maybe endurance, even in its messy, desperate form,

was the only way she knew to stay alive.

So I started to speak to her differently.

Not as the villain of my story, but as the child of my pain.

I began writing letters to her —

simple ones, honest ones:

I’m sorry for judging you.

Thank you for enduring.

You didn’t deserve what happened.

Some days I read them aloud.

Other days I just imagine her sitting across from me —

hands trembling, eyes full of fear —

and I tell her she can rest now.

That she doesn’t have to keep apologizing.

That I’ll carry the healing from here.

The crow outside reminds me daily:

you can’t fly while pecking at your own wings.

To rise, you must release.

So I lay the blame down like a stone,

and I fill the hollow it leaves behind with mercy.

Being kind to my past self doesn’t mean I forget.

It means I finally understand.

I see her not as a ghost haunting me,

but as the foundation beneath me.

She walked through fire so I could learn to stand in light.

And for that, I will never again call her anything but brave.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

How do you speak to the version of yourself that endured the worst days? What words of compassion does your past self need to hear from you now? Can you see your survival — even your mistakes — as evidence of your strength?