A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear younger me,

I know you don’t understand what’s happening right now.

You realize you may be in danger as you hide in the bathroom, washing a sticky substance from your hair, swiping away the saliva he left on your face. It’s not the first time. You’re confused. Afraid. Numb, maybe.

You keep wondering if it’s your fault—or if maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Let me tell you something that will take you years to believe:

It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.

I wish you knew what boundaries were. I wish someone had told you that your body is yours—that you have the right to say no, even to someone close to you.

That you could change your mind. That you have the right to take up space, and be heard—without guilt, without fear.

I wish someone had told you that shame belongs to the person who hurt you. Not to you. Not to your body. Not to the part of you that still longs for love and acceptance, even after being harmed.

I want you to know that healing will be possible as you work toward becoming someone new—someone wiser, stronger, softer.

Someone who will learn to trust her own voice. Someone who will stop apologizing for surviving.

You will carry the pain, yes. But you’ll also carry the power. And in time, the power will feel heavier than the pain—in the best of ways.

You will one day speak for others who can’t. You will find people who see the whole you—not as damaged, not as broken, but as resilient, radiant, and deeply human.

Until then, hold on. Cry when you need to. Rest when you’re tired. And know that you are never alone.

Things will change, and one day you will no longer see yourself as a victim—because that gives power to your abuser.

You will always be a survivor—as you grow your strengths and begin piecing yourself back together.

But more than that, you will become a warrior—sharing your light with kindness and compassion for those without a voice, for those still in pain.

With all the love you didn’t know you deserved,

—Me