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.
Wawira Gathoni* pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self. Here is part 11 of her series
Dear Younger self,
You spent so many years hating your name. Wawira.
Even writing that now makes me smile a little because of how differently life turned out.
As a child, your name felt heavy. Other children laughed at it because it meant “someone who works.” At that age, you did not understand why anybody would want to be associated with work. Childhood teaches us very early that certain things are considered admirable and others are considered embarrassing.
Hard work did not yet feel beautiful to you. It felt tiring. Ordinary. Something people used to tease you.
And children can be cruel without fully understanding the impact of their words. Small jokes settle deeply inside young hearts. Slowly, you began associating your own name with embarrassment. You wished it sounded softer, prettier, easier to carry.
You wanted a name people admired effortlessly.
Not one they laughed at. What you did not know then is that names sometimes grow into us slowly.
At first, they are simply words people use to call us.
Then one day life happens, and suddenly the meaning becomes identity.
Today, when I think about your name, I cannot separate it from the woman you became.
Because you have worked. Not just professionally. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. You have worked through disappointment.
Worked through heartbreak. Worked through self-doubt. Worked through motherhood. Worked through healing. Worked through survival.
Worked through becoming. And perhaps that is why your name feels sacred to you now. Because it tells the truth.
There is a kind of woman life produces through labour that people rarely speak about openly. Not labour only in the physical sense, but the invisible labour women carry every day.
The emotional labour of holding families together. The mental labour of constantly thinking ahead. The labour of rebuilding yourself after pain.
The labour of remaining soft in a world that often rewards hardness. The labour of choosing integrity when compromise would sometimes be easier.
Women work in ways society rarely fully acknowledges. And somewhere along your journey, you stopped seeing hard work as something shameful.
You began seeing it as character. As resilience. As dignity. As evidence of commitment to life itself.
But learning to love your name was also part of a bigger journey: Learning to love yourself fully. That journey took time.
Because girlhood teaches many women to become uncomfortable with themselves very early. Too loud. Too emotional. Too ambitious. Too opinionated. Too sensitive. Too intelligent. Too different.
Women spend years shrinking themselves into versions that feel more acceptable to the world.
You did some of that too.
There were seasons you questioned your worth. Seasons you minimised your intelligence. Seasons you sought validation from people who could not even fully see you.
Seasons you disconnected from yourself trying to belong elsewhere. But life has a way of returning us to ourselves eventually.
And as you grew older, something shifted. You stopped wanting to perform womanhood for approval. You became more interested in authenticity.
More interested in peace. More interested in integrity. More interested in becoming whole instead of simply impressive. That shift changed your relationship with yourself completely.
You started embracing the very things you once tried to hide. Your depth. Your sensitivity. Your self-awareness. Your work ethic. Your ambition.
Your softness. Your complexity. And slowly, your name stopped feeling like a burden. It started feeling earned.
I think there is something deeply powerful about women who grow into themselves honestly. Women who stop apologising for their intelligence. Their ambition. Their resilience. Their emotional depth. Their survival.
Women who stop asking permission to exist fully. You are becoming one of those women. Not perfectly. But intentionally.
And honestly, I think younger you would be surprised by how much peace you eventually found in simply accepting yourself. Not the edited version.
The full version. The woman shaped by shags, Nairobi, heartbreak, healing, motherhood, leadership, education, purpose, trauma, growth, faith, disappointment, and resilience.
All of her. Including the little girl who once wished she had a different name. If I could speak to her now, I would tell her this:
One day, you will understand that your name was never your burden. It was your becoming.
And one day, people will say “Wawira” with respect because of the life you built around it.
Not because life was easy for you. But because you kept showing up anyway. And honestly?
That is something worth honouring.
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.
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