Letter to My Younger Self: What my hands learned before my heart knew

Every scar has a story. “Letter to My Younger Self” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who've walked winding roads—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone still figuring it out. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how setbacks shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From nurturing curiosity to embracing mentorship, each piece is a tribute to growth through lived experience.

Paul Njigi* not his real name, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self.

Dear Younger Self,

Come closer.
Sit with me for a moment.

I know you once dreamed of becoming an advocate standing in courtrooms, arguing for justice with words alone. Life had other plans, but listen carefully: justice never left you. It simply changed uniform.

I remember the day your world tilted the day daddy died. One moment, you were a child in Mombasa, safe in his shadow. The next, everything shifted. Home became quieter. Life became heavier. And before you were ready, you had to grow up.

The move to Lari was not just a change of place; it was a change of fate. As the second-born, you learned responsibility early. You watched Mother carry impossible burdens with quiet strength borrowing, sacrificing, and praying. You learned then that leadership is not loud; it is faithful.

You studied in village classrooms up to Grade Six, wondering if the world would ever open wider for you. It did, but not easily. Back in Mombasa, living with Auntie, adjusting, catching up, and proving yourself again. KCPE. Then Moi Forces Academy. Discipline. Structure. Long days that taught you endurance before you even knew its name.

At Chuka University, you finally found language for your calling criminology, security, justice. But let me remind you of something you rarely talk about.

Those long holidays were not holidays. While others rested, you worked.

In Chuka town, you bent over strangers’ shoes, polishing, repairing, and restoring your hands learning dignity through honest labour. You shined shoes. You fixed soles. You swallowed pride and discovered self-respect.

When business slowed, you adapted. You sold perfumes to fellow students, calculating profit quietly, and learning entrepreneurship the hard way. You configured internet settings on phones and laptops, charging small fees, solving problems, staying relevant. You understood early that survival demands creativity and that no work is beneath a man who knows where he is going.

You never complained. You just kept moving.

You graduated well, but more importantly, you graduated certain: service would be your life’s work.

When you joined the National Police Service in 2018, you did not choose comfort. You chose duty.

Kiganjo hardened your body. Magadi tested your spirit. Tot Police Station shaped your heart. There, among hardship and long nights, you discovered community. ‘Askari Mashinani’ was born, not from orders, but from care. You spoke to children, warned them gently, and tried to interrupt cycles before they hardened into fate.

You kept learning. Investigations. Media. Communication. You discovered that justice also lives in stories how they are told, and who gets to tell them.

Then came India. Leaving your young family broke your heart more than you admitted. Culture shock. Loneliness. Late nights of study and prayer. But you stayed. You served others again international students, strangers who became family. You baked cakes. You advocated. You built home where none existed.

And then this is important you rose.

Top of your class. Gold Medal. First African to ever receive it at the Central University of Punjab. History bent quietly in your hands, and you carried it with humility.

But listen to me now: your greatest achievement is not the medal. It is the boy who never gave up. The student who worked with his hands so his dreams could stay alive. The son who honours his mother’s sacrifice. The man who understands that power means protecting the vulnerable.

Mother is tired now. Frail. And it hurts to see. But your work every long day, every sacrifice is a thank you she never asked for but always deserved.

So here is what I want you to know, younger me:

You were never struggling, you were being trained.
You were never behind, you were building depth.
You did not fail your dream, you fulfilled it differently.

Keep learning. Keep serving. Keep leading with humility.
And never forget, you are becoming the man that boy needed.

With pride,
Your Older Self

Everyone has a story worth sharing. If you’ve ever wished you could talk to your younger self—with wisdom, forgiveness, or clarity—we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might just be the encouragement someone else needs today. You may remain anonymous if preferred, but your truth matters. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experience. Join us in building a collection of life’s hard-earned lessons and gentle reminders.

Be part of this movement. Send your Letter to My Younger Self to: [email protected]