Open Letter to my Younger Self

Part of: The Shit That Built Me and Broke Me – Childhood Series

This is for you. Yeah—you. Sitting in that house that never really feels safe, learning how to read footsteps before you ever learn how to trust people, figuring out survival before you ever get the chance to just be a kid. I know you better than anyone, because I am you—just further down the road.

Right now, you think this is just your life. You think the chaos, the yelling, the walking on eggshells, the constant feeling that everything could explode at any second—that’s just how it is. You think the words they throw at you are true. Worthless. Problem. Too much. Not enough. I need you to hear me on this, even if you don’t believe it yet: they were wrong. Completely, fundamentally wrong.

You didn’t deserve any of it. Not losing Dad. Not the instability. Not the abuse. Not the silence when you finally got the courage to speak and the system failed you. None of it. You were a kid trying to survive in a world that asked you to carry weight you were never meant to hold, and somehow… you carried it anyway.

I know what you’re doing to get through it. I know how you’ve learned to stay quiet, to shrink, to disappear, to become whatever version of yourself feels safest in the moment. I know how fast you can read a room, how you can pick up on tone, tension, the way a door shuts, the way a voice changes. You think that’s damage. It’s not. It’s adaptation. It’s survival. It’s the reason I’m still here.

But listen to me—this part matters—you don’t have to stay this version of yourself forever.

I know your world feels small right now. It’s just that house, those people, those moments. But it’s not permanent. There is a life outside of this that you can’t even picture yet. There’s a version of you that wakes up without bracing for impact. A version of you that doesn’t apologize for existing. A version of you that finds something he actually cares about—and is good at it. You don’t believe that yet. I didn’t either.

You’re going to make it out. Not clean. Not unscarred. Not magically fixed. But you’re going to make it out. And when you do, you’re going to realize something that will hit you hard: everything you learned about surviving back then is exactly why you can handle what comes next.

You’re going to find a career. Not just a job—a career that actually means something to you. You’re going to step into chaos and stay calm, and people are going to look at you like you’re built different. They’ll say things like, “I don’t know how you do it,” and part of you will almost laugh, because they didn’t see where it started.

You’re going to set goals. You’re going to chase them hard. Some you’ll hit. Some you’ll miss. Some will fall apart completely. There are going to be moments where it feels like you’re right back in that house, like none of it mattered. That’s not the truth—that’s the trauma talking. Your progress was never going to be a straight line. It’s messy, uneven, frustrating as hell sometimes. But it’s still forward.

And I’m not going to lie to you—even after you get out, even after you start building a life, you’re still going to struggle. That voice they put in your head doesn’t just disappear overnight. There will be days it’s loud. Days it feels real. Days it drags you back into places you thought you left behind. But here’s the difference now: you’re not trapped anymore. You’re working through it. You’re learning. You’re unlearning. You’re slowly putting yourself back together.

You’re allowed to take your time with that. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re allowed to still be healing while also building something better.

One day, you’re going to look back at everything you survived, and it’s not just going to feel like pain. It’s going to feel like proof. Proof that you can endure. Proof that you can adapt. Proof that you can build something out of nothing. Proof that you were never weak—you were just forced to be strong way too early.

So if you’re sitting there right now, feeling stuck, feeling small, feeling like this is all there is—hold on. Not because it sounds good. Not because someone told you to. Hold on because there is something on the other side of this, even if you can’t see it yet. Hold on because you don’t even know who you’re going to become. Hold on because this story doesn’t end in that house.

I made it out. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But I did. I found a path. I’m building a career I care about. I’m chasing goals—even when I stumble. I’m still struggling sometimes, but I’m working through it. I’m still here.

And you will be too.

You’re not done. You’re just getting through the part no one sees.

—Me