There was a long time when I didn’t know how to write a message to my younger self. Not because I didn’t have things to say, but because I didn’t know how to look at her without wanting to scoop her up and protect her from everything she had to carry too soon. So instead of writing to her, I became her. Slowly. Intentionally. Gently.

I made space in my adult life to nourish and baby myself in ways that were never modeled for me.

And maybe that is the message.

If I could sit across from my younger self now, I wouldn’t start with advice. I wouldn’t tell her how strong she is or how resilient she’ll become. She already knows how to survive. She had to. What I would tell her is something much quieter.

You don’t have to earn rest.

You don’t have to earn love.

You don’t have to earn softness.

Growing up, I wasn’t babied. I was praised for what I could do, how capable I was, how much I could handle. I was the responsible one. The helpful one. The one who got things done. And while those compliments sounded like love, they taught me something dangerous: that my worth lived in my productivity.

No one told me I was pretty just because I existed.

No one told me I was enough without achieving something first.

So I learned to perform. I learned to push. I learned to survive.

Now, as an adult, I do the work no one did for me. I baby myself. I talk to myself softly. I rest without apologizing. I tell myself I’m pretty even when I’m not dressed up, even when I’m tired, even when I haven’t “done” anything that day. I choose comfort on purpose. I choose slowness. I choose to reparent myself with tenderness instead of discipline.

To my younger self, I would say this:

You are not behind.

You are not broken.

You are not failing.

The world taught you to believe that love comes with conditions, but I promise you, it doesn’t have to. One day, you will unlearn the urgency. One day, you will stop measuring your value by your output. One day, you will sit still and realize the world doesn’t end when you rest.

And yes, learning to do nothing will feel terrifying at first. Because no one ever taught you that peace could exist without chaos. But you will learn. Slowly. Patiently. You will learn that joy doesn’t always look loud. That safety can be quiet. That a soft life isn’t laziness, it’s healing.

I would tell her that she doesn’t have to be strong all the time. That strength can look like asking for help. That being held is not a weakness. That softness is not something you grow out of, but something you grow into.

I would tell her that her body is not a tool. It’s a home.

That her mind is not a machine. It’s a garden.

That her heart deserves gentleness, not constant testing.

Most of all, I would tell her this:

I see you now.

I protect you now.

I rest for you now.

Every nap I take without guilt, every boundary I set, every moment I choose ease over obligation, I do it for her. Every time I let myself enjoy beauty, warmth, and stillness, I am rewriting the story she had to live inside.

I didn’t know how to write a message to my younger self before because I was too busy surviving. Now, I know the message isn’t a letter at all. It’s the life I’m building. One where I no longer have to prove anything to deserve peace.

And that feels like the greatest love I could ever give her.