a letter to the girl i was at 18

Dear 18-year-old me,

I wonder what you would think if you could see me now.

You’d probably be surprised by how different everything looks. Maybe you’d be disappointed by some of the things that didn’t happen. Maybe you’d be proud of the things you never thought you’d survive. 

You were so desperate to become someone, while being loved for the version of yourself you have outgrown.

You thought adulthood would arrive all at once — that one day you’d wake up knowing exactly who you were, where you were going, what you wanted, and how to get there.

I’m sorry to tell you that it doesn’t really happen like that.

You are going to lose people, like the boyfriend you’re currently living with. You’re going to lose versions of yourself, too. Some of them you’ll mourn. Some of them you’ll be relieved to leave behind. 

You’re going to make choices you don’t understand until years later.

Please don’t hate yourself for them.

You were always doing the best you could with the information you had at the time.

I wish I could tell you that you don’t have to prove your worth by being desirable, successful, beautiful, productive, or wanted.

You don’t have to be chosen.

You don’t have to make yourself smaller so somebody else can feel bigger.

You don’t have to become whatever version of yourself you think will finally make everyone stay.

I wish you’d understood sooner that being loved and being treated well are not the same thing.

And I wish you’d known that leaving something behind doesn’t mean you failed.

Sometimes leaving is the bravest thing you can do.

There are going to be moments where you feel completely lost. You’ll wonder if you’ve ruined your life. You’ll compare yourself to girls who seem years ahead of you and wonder why you’re struggling to keep up.

Don’t.

Your life isn’t late.

There is no universal timeline for becoming yourself.

You will change your mind. You’ll change your appearance. You’ll change your dreams. You’ll fall in love with things you once thought weren’t for you.

Let yourself.

You don’t owe anyone consistency when you’re still discovering who you are.

And please keep creating.

Keep taking photographs. Keep writing things down. Keep collecting little pieces of beauty. Keep dressing in your unique way. Keep listening to music too loudly. Keep romanticising the ordinary.

One day, those little things will become evidence that you were here.

That you existed through all of it.

And eventually, you’ll realise something:

You weren’t supposed to become a completely different girl.

You were supposed to come home to yourself.

So, 18-year-old me, I’m sorry for every time I called you stupid when you were actually just learning.

I’m sorry for every time I called you weak when you were exhausted.

I’m sorry for every time I looked at you and only saw everything you weren’t.

You deserved the tenderness I kept waiting for somebody else to give you.

I’m trying to give it to you now.

Love,

Me, a little older. ♡