To My Younger Self

Parts of this entry were first written back in 2023 in my personal journal. I’ve revisited and revised them with care for this post. It’s going to be a long and deeply personal one. I’m sharing it with the hope that maybe, in reading this, you’ll recognize something familiar—some reminder that your own story, with all its highs and lows, is part of something bigger.

Looking back on my past selves has been one of the most healing things I’ve ever done. I often think about who I used to be—sometimes the little girl who didn’t feel loved enough, sometimes the teenager who felt like her world was falling apart, finding comfort only in family and a few close friends. Other times, I think about the young adult who thought she had everything figured out, only to face unexpected changes and reshape her vision of the future. I look back often, not just with reflection, but with a lot of compassion and appreciation.

I feel deeply. I think endlessly. I reflect on every stage of my life. Lately, my thoughts have circled back to the little girl I once was. I think she laid the groundwork for who I became. Sharing something this personal is never easy, and even when I talk about it, I know not everyone will fully understand. Simply put, my teenage years, though important, weren’t always happy.

When I think about that time, the first memories that come up aren’t the best ones. I remember feeling anxious, different, and like I didn’t belong, especially in comparison to my classmates. I wasn’t achieving as much as they were, and I definitely didn’t feel academically gifted or remarkable in any way. That sense of falling behind—of not being “enough”—slowly chipped away at my confidence. I want to be very clear: the way I felt wasn’t really anyone’s fault. No one directly made me feel that way. It was just how I experienced life at the time—through the lens of self-doubt, comparison, and a quiet longing to measure up. Looking back now, I can see that I was doing my best with what I had, but back then, it felt like I was always a few steps behind everyone else. That feeling lingered longer than it should have, but it also taught me to be kinder to myself as I grew.

Before I dive into this entry, I feel like I need to explain that. Most of my life, I’ve pushed those memories aside because they were painful. But not long ago, I had a moment of clarity. And I realized: she—she-the younger me—is the reason I’m standing where I am now.

To my 12-year-old self—I see you. You tasted, for the first time, the sweetness of attention. As messed up as it sounds, it felt like proof that you were finally enough. Something clicked in your head. “So this is what it feels like?” you thought. From that point on, you dedicated your school years to striving for the top. You weren’t competing with anyone else, only with yourself. The good thing is, you genuinely enjoyed it. You loved learning. School, friendships, and academic excellence became your escape. You weren’t the rebellious kind—not because you didn’t want to be, but because you couldn’t afford to be. There was already too much noise, too much chaos around you. You knew, instinctively, that adding more would break something you were desperately trying to hold together.

Then came 13 to 16, which was when things began to slip. You were the first in the family to make it into a boarding school—something that thrilled our Asian parents to no end. That school was where you met the girls—over a hundred of them, and though I can’t name every one, many of them are still in your life today, more present than ever. But every day you wondered: Do I really belong here? And honestly, even now, you still ask yourself whether staying those five years so far away from home was the right choice. The truth? You lost pieces of yourself there. Whole stretches of time you can’t quite remember—like you were moving through life on autopilot. Maybe that was your body’s way of protecting you, numbing the pain that outweighed the joy. Maybe forgetting was a way of surviving.

But even in all that forgetting, I remember you—the girl who kept showing up. Who carried the weight. Who never let go of hope, even when she didn’t know where it was taking her. And I’m proud of her. I’m proud of you.

To my 17-year-old self: I know it was hard. You felt left out and unloved. But the way you kept going, the way you stayed hopeful—it laid a foundation for everything that came after. You didn’t know it yet, but almost 25-year-old me is so grateful for you. Of all the versions of myself, you shaped me the most. You didn’t just influence me—you started it all. I realize now how much our childhood shapes us, and I’ve made it a goal to give my future children the love and safety I know matters. My parents did their best, and I know that. But my memories just painted things a bit differently.

To my 18 to 20-year-old selves—the versions I miss the most: Life was a mix of chaos and clarity. You loved school. Matriculation was one of your happiest times. But that was also when you started letting go of plans, trusting in Allah’s timing instead. You had to say goodbye to some dreams, but you kept going, believing that what was meant for you would find its way. Despite all the changes, you were genuinely happy. Looking back now, I realize that was when life took a real turn. You made choices that shaped everything that came after. Your peace came from faith, and for that, I thank you. 

To the most recent versions of me, my mid-twenties: You cried, you wrote, you questioned everything. You filled journals with truth and ache. If I could go back, I’d probably shake you a little. You had so much hope, too much faith in people who didn’t deserve it. You expected the best from people who couldn’t give it. Do you remember that morning you had to drag yourself out of bed just to make it to the psychiatric clinic? You made it there. Even when panic wrapped around your throat, even when the crowd made it hard to breathe and all you wanted was to disappear, you showed up. You used to hate crowds. You hated seeing strangers. But even more than that, you hated seeing people you knew, because pretending everything was fine took more energy than you had. And the nights—so many nights— you cried without knowing why. 

Then came early 2023. You couldn’t sleep alone. You stopped eating. You dropped to 35 kgs—skin and bone—because nothing tasted like anything, not food, not life. You were a ghost in your own body. But you didn’t become bitter—you processed it, wrote letters you never sent, and slowly let go of what couldn’t be changed. You came to understand your thoughts and feelings in a way no one else could do for you. It was hard, but you gained something only pain could teach you: clarity and a deeper kind of strength. 

I came back—not whole, but real—and that’s stronger than anything I was before.

I can’t stress enough how important it is to acknowledge your past and how it’s shaped you. I don’t regret anything. I don’t carry resentment. I love who I’ve become because of everything I’ve been through. Writing this and putting it out there is honestly scary, but I hope it encourages you to reflect on your own journey. To honor even the painful parts. To see how they’ve shaped the way you move, decide, and love.

If you’ve wandered this far, thank you—truly, from the quietest corner of my heart.

From this week onward, let’s make a date: meet me here, on the 30th of each month.