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 (Not her real name) pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self. Here is part 12 of her series
Dear Younger self,
If there is one thing I wish you knew earlier, it is this: Life is not a straight line toward becoming.
It is a series of versions. Some beautiful. Some painful. Some confident. Some deeply lost. And all of them, somehow, become part of you.
For so many years, you thought adulthood would eventually arrive with certainty. You thought there would come a moment where everything finally made sense — where healing was complete, confidence became permanent, relationships became easy, purpose became clear, and life stopped feeling emotionally complicated.
But adulthood is not arrival. It is awareness.
The older you get, the more you realise that becoming is ongoing. People are constantly evolving through love, grief, disappointment, motherhood, ambition, healing, survival, joy, loneliness, and hope.
Nobody fully finishes becoming. We simply become more conscious of ourselves over time. And honestly, I think that awareness has been one of the greatest gifts of your journey.
Because younger you spent so much time trying to become the “right” kind of woman. The woman people approved of. The woman who made fewer mistakes. The woman who seemed emotionally put together.
The woman who was easier to love. But life humbled you beautifully. It taught you that perfection is exhausting.
And more importantly, it taught you that perfection is not the same thing as wholeness.
Wholeness leaves room for contradiction.
For complexity. For tenderness. For flaws. For growth. For healing.
Today, you are more self-aware than you have ever been before.
Sometimes painfully so. You understand your triggers better. Your fears. Your strengths. Your wounds. Your emotional patterns. The things that shaped you. The things you are still trying to unlearn.
And while that level of awareness can feel heavy sometimes, it has also made you intentional.
You now understand the importance of accountability.
Of integrity. Of doing what is right even when nobody is watching. You understand the importance of emotional honesty.
Of apologising when necessary. Of protecting your peace.
Of choosing relationships that feel safe, reciprocal, and grounding. You understand now that not every battle deserves your energy.
That not every relationship deserves access to you.
That not every version of yourself deserves to survive forever. Some versions of us are meant to be outgrown.
And perhaps that is what this entire journey has really been about:
Outgrowing survival. Outgrowing fear. Outgrowing self-abandonment. Outgrowing the need to constantly prove your worth.
You are still healing, yes. Still learning.
Still becoming. But you are no longer running from yourself the way you once did. That matters.
Because self-acceptance changes everything.
Not the shallow kind people perform online. Real self-acceptance. The kind where you acknowledge your wounds without making them your entire identity.
The kind where you stop punishing yourself for being human. The kind where you begin extending compassion toward the younger versions of yourself instead of shame.
And honestly, I think that is one of the most beautiful things about getting older. You begin understanding your younger self with softness instead of judgement.
You stop asking: “Why was I like that?”
And start asking: “What was I carrying then?” That shift changes healing completely.
Today, when you look back at the little girl from shags, the teenager struggling through high school, the university girl trying desperately to belong, the young graduate terrified about the future, the young mother learning strength, the woman navigating trauma and healing, you no longer see failure.
You see becoming.
Every version of you was trying her best with the emotional tools she had at the time.
And somehow, despite everything life placed in your path, you kept going.
You kept rebuilding. You kept learning. You kept loving. You kept hoping.
You kept becoming softer instead of harder. That is not weakness. That is extraordinary strength. There are still dreams you carry.
Still goals you want to achieve. Still healing you hope to experience. Still peace you are learning to protect. Still parts of yourself you are discovering.
But for the first time in a long time, you are no longer trying to become someone else entirely.
You are simply trying to become more fully yourself.
And maybe that is what healing was always supposed to do. Not erase the past. Not erase pain. Not erase imperfection.
But teach us how to hold all the versions of ourselves with honesty, grace, and compassion.
So if I could leave you with one final truth, it would be this: You do not need to become perfect to become worthy.
You already were. Even as the little girl who hated her name.
Even as the teenager who felt misunderstood.
Even as the young woman who got lost trying to belong. Even as the mother still healing.
Even now. And honestly? I think the woman you are becoming is someone younger you would look at with pride, tenderness, and disbelief.
Not because she became flawless. But because she survived without losing her humanity.
And in this world, that is no small thing at all.
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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