Hey, kid.
I wish I could sit beside you right now, not as some voice from the future, but as a friend. I wouldn't start with warnings or advice. I'd just sit, quietly, the way you always like best. the world was always to loud for you anyway.
I see you there-curled into yourself, thinking too much, speaking too little.
You're trying to figure out how to shrink, how to disappear just enough so people won't notice the awkwardness in your laugh or how much your hands shake when you're called on in class. You wear silence like armor, and I get it. I wore it too.
And yet, I wish you hadn't felt the need to. I wish someone had told you sooner that you didn't have to hide your heart just to survive. That you could be both soft and strong. That being different didn't mean being alone, and quiet didn't mean invisible. You were never invisible to me.
I want to tell you that it's okay not to have it all together. That feeling lost isn't a flaw-it's just a part of growing. But you won't believe me. I know you. You think pain has to be earned, that you have to prove that you're worthy of been broken. You're far too hard on yourself, and not nearly hard enough on the people who let you down.
You learned early on to apologize for your existence. For being too sensitive. Too emotional. Too different.
They called you dramatic. They laughed when you cried too easily. And slowly, you began to believe that your softness made you weak.
But here's the truth: It didn't. It never did.
Your softness is what will save you later.
You'll grow up and still fell everything deeply. You'll cry over songs, over strangers, over moments other people forget. You'll fall in love too fast and hold on too long. And for a while, that'll feel like a curse. But it's not. It's your strength. You feel what others run from.
You care when others turn away. That's not weakness-that's courage, even if it doesn't look like it yet.
I wish you could see yourself the way I do now. I know you hate mirrors. You stare and pick and critique. You think you're not enough of this or too much of that. Your body feels foreign, like a thing you're trapped in instead of something you're allowed to love. But one day, slowly, that starts to change. You learn to be gentle with the reflection. Not all at once, but in moments.
It happens on a Tuesday morning when the sun hits just right, or in a crowded room when someone actually listens to you and doesn't just wait for their turn to speak. You'll feel seen. It will scare you, but it will also crack something open.
And the light will pour in.
Like the morning you'll write your first real letter to someone who hurt you, and you'll mean every word-even the ones you never send. That will be the beginning of your healing. You'll start to understand that silence doesn't equal strength, and speaking your truth isn't betrayal.
I won't lie-there are still dark chapters ahead.
People will disappoint you. Some will leave. Some will pretend to stay while slowly disappearing.
You'll have night where it feels like your chest might cave in from the weight of it all.
But here this: you will survive every single one of those nights.
And then some.
You'll lose people you thought were permanent.
Some to distance, some to time, and some just because you outgrow them. That's okay, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Every goodbye will make space for something better, even if you can't see it yet.
There's so much I wish I could shield you from-but then again, maybe I wouldn't. Every crack made room for something brighter. Every fall taught you something you victories never could.
You will love again. And lose again. And love differently.
You will write story that scares you. You'll speaks in rooms where your voice shakes but still stands. You'll learn how to say "no" without guilt. How to say "yes" without fear. You'll find friendships that feels like safety and warmth-not permanent or survival. You'll even laugh-real, loud, head-thrown-back kind of laughter-and it won't feel out of place anymore.
One day, you'll stop asking, "what's wrong with me?"
And start asking, "Who taught me to feel unworthy in the first place?"
That's where the healing begins.
I know you don't believe in yourself yet. You think you're just trying to make it through, unnoticed. But I see you. I see the quiet bravery it takes to get up everyday in a world that overwhelms you. That's not small. That's not weak. That's resilience.
I see the dreams you don't say out loud. The ones you bury under practicality and fear of rejection.
But here's something wild: some of them come true. Not always how you imagined, and not all at once, but they grow. You'll write things that matter to people. You'll be told your words helped someone feel less alone. That will mean more to you than you can even imagine right now.
There's still a long road ahead. There are still hard lessons waiting for you. But there is also love. Real love. In yourself. Around you. In places you didn't think to look.
You made it.
Not because you were fearless.
But because you felt everything and still chose to keep going.
And maybe that's what I love most about you-you never stop trying. Even when your heart is bruised. Even when you're tired. You keep hoping. You keep dreaming. You keep loving.
So if I could say only one thing to you, it would be this:
you are not too much.
You are exactly enough.
Love yourself through the mess.
Be patient with your beginning.
And never, ever forget-soft does not mean weak.
With all the love you never knew you deserved,
-The You Who Finally Believes.