Letters to younger selves

To the version of me at nineteen: it gets better, but not the way you think. You stop waiting for permission. Hold on.

Younger me — you will be loved. Not by the people you're chasing now. By people you haven't met. Stop shrinking yourself for them.

To me at twenty-five: the breakup you think will end you is the door to your whole real life. Walk through it.

Little one — the thing you're most ashamed of will become the thing that helps someone else survive. Don't hide it forever.

Eighteen-year-old me: you are allowed to disappoint them. The life they planned for you isn't yours to live. Choose anyway.

You survive all of it. Every single thing you're terrified of right now. I'm writing from the other side just to tell you: you make it.