Letters from the Version of Me that Didn't Give Up

My Dearest Dummy,

Yes. I said dummy. And before you roll your eyes or shrink back into that familiar defensive curl, let me say this clearly: I call you that with love. The kind of love that doesn’t coddle you into staying stuck, but grips your shoulders, looks you dead in the eyes, and refuses to let you pretend you don’t know better anymore.

Get your shit together!

I know—this is supposed to be therapeutic. Gentle. Soft. A warm bath of affirmations and pastel-colored encouragement. I tried that already. You nodded along, lit a candle, cried a little, and then went right back to self-sabotage like it was a second job. So forgive me if today’s tone is less “guided meditation” and more “emergency intervention.” That being said…come here. Sit with me. Breathe.

I need you to understand something fundamental before I go any further: you are not weak. You are not broken. You are not a victim of some cursed fate that singled you out for humiliation and decay. That story running on loop in your head? That’s not truth. That’s conditioning. That’s exhaustion masquerading as identity.

And yes—before you deflect—accept this too: you are beautiful. Physically, energetically, intrinsically. I know compliments make you uncomfortable. I know your first instinct is to argue, minimize, or joke it away. Don’t. Just sit there and let the words land. You need love more than you need another internal cross-examination.

I see how you got here. The bad choices. The coping mechanisms that overstayed their welcome. The one decision that led to another, then another, until suddenly your life felt less like a life and more like a holding cell. A loop. A stale, airless room you keep pacing because at least you know where the walls are.

You call this living, but we both know the truth. This is survival mode. This is endurance, not fulfillment. This is existence stripped of joy, confidence, and self-respect.

Every day feels like a warped version of Groundhog Day—same dread, different date. You go through the motions because it’s easier than imagining something else. Easier than risking hope. Easier than stepping into the unknown, even though the known is actively suffocating you. And this is the part that frustrates me the most—so listen closely.

You’re terrified of change as if it could be worse than what you’re already enduring. As if the unknown is somehow more dangerous than the loneliness, the stagnation, the quiet self-disgust you carry like a second skin. You cling to this misery because it’s familiar. Predictable. You know exactly how it hurts.

But tell me this—honestly—how is this not rock bottom? I don’t ask that to shame you. I ask because I need you to stop romanticizing your own suffering. You don’t get extra points for staying in hell just because you learned the layout.

I apologize if my words sting. Truly. I know you’re sensitive, even when you pretend you’re not. But damn it, girl—I wish you could see what I see. I wish you could feel what I feel when I look at you: the strength you’ve forgotten, the potential you buried under guilt, the future that keeps knocking even when you refuse to answer.

You didn’t lose your willpower. You didn’t lose yourself. You detoured. And detours—contrary to what you believe—are not dead ends.

Yes, you veered off the original path. The promising one. The one everyone thought you’d take. But listen to me very carefully now: your mistakes do not get to decide the rest of your life. You do.

I know you hate clichés, but you also know they become clichés because they’re true. You are the author of this story. Not the editor, not the critic—the author. And authors can revise. Authors can rewrite entire chapters. Authors can burn drafts and start again. You are not just a person reacting to circumstances. You are a powerful manifester, even when you’re unconscious of it. Especially then. Look around—everything in your life right now is evidence of your creative power. Imagine what happens when you use it deliberately.

Here is the truth you keep forgetting:

You are a divine, sovereign being having a human experience. You chose this life. You chose this lesson. And you chose it because you could survive it—and then transcend it. I know how ridiculous that sounds to you right now. You read words like “chosen” and “lesson” and want to scoff. Fine. Scoff. But stay with me anyway.

This is the part where you fight through. This is the part where the story turns. This is the part where the grass actually is greener on the other side—because you watered it with courage instead of fear. You are not meant to stay here. You are meant to rise from here.

You are blinded right now, yes. Exhausted. Disoriented. But blind does not mean incapable. And exhaustion is not a life sentence—it’s a signal. There is a light at the end of this tunnel. And no, it’s not some abstract fantasy or distant miracle. It’s you. The version of you who chose herself even when it was uncomfortable.

I am already there. I am waiting. And I am rooting for you—always.

With relentless love,

You

________

Dear… you,

I don’t know why I’m writing back. Part of me is angry. Part of me feels exposed. And part of me—quiet, trembling—feels seen in a way that makes my chest ache.

You talk like I’m powerful, like I’m choosing this, like there’s some grand reason behind the mess I’m drowning in. I want to believe you. I really do. But some days it feels like all I am is the aftermath of my own failures. Like I missed my chance and now I’m just… here. You say I’m afraid of the unknown. Maybe that’s true. But I’m also afraid of hoping again. Afraid of trying and confirming what I secretly fear—that I really did ruin everything.

I don’t feel divine. I don’t feel sovereign. I feel tired. And yet… I keep rereading your words. So maybe that means something. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe this is the part before the remembering. I don’t know how to become you yet. But I’m listening...

—Me

________

My love,

That’s all I needed to hear. Not certainty. Not confidence. Not some dramatic vow to change everything overnight. Just your willingness to listen. You think becoming me requires some monumental transformation—discipline perfected, wounds healed, fear eliminated. It doesn’t. Becoming me begins the moment you stop abandoning yourself. The moment you choose honesty over avoidance. The moment you take one small step instead of waiting for the perfect surge of motivation that never comes. You don’t need to feel ready. You just need to move anyway.

I am not disappointed in you for being tired. I am not keeping score of your missteps. I am not standing at the finish line tapping my foot. I exist because you endured. Because you questioned. Because even now, in the middle of doubt, you reached for truth instead of numbness. That matters more than you know. You are not late. You are not behind. You are not disqualified from the life you want.

You are exactly where the remembering begins.

When you stumble, I will still be here. When you doubt yourself again—and you will—I will not disappear. Every time you choose yourself, no matter how quietly, the distance between us collapses.

One day, you’ll reread these letters and smile—not because of how far you still have to go, but because you’ll recognize the moment everything shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But irrevocably.

Until then, borrow my faith when yours feels thin. Borrow my strength when yours feels spent. Borrow my vision when yours feels clouded. I am not ahead of you. I am within you.

Always,

You