When We Were Young

When I think about my younger selves, I remember a happy, imaginative but anxious child.

Never a fan of attention, I was shy and quiet, usually lost in my own little world.

I knew there were things that made me ‘different’, but it was okay.

As the years past the happiness started to fade away – replaced by a numbing sadness, and a complete lack of self-worth.

When I think back to the girl I used to be, just a few years ago, I want to hold her in my arms and tell her how sorry I am.

I let her go through so much – so much she didn’t deserve.

I let pieces of her be broken off, by hands that should never have touched her.

I put scars on her body. And on her heart.

I let her believe she was only worthy when a man could love her.

I let her believe she deserved all the pain and the torment.

I let her think she would never be anyone special.

I let her play a small part in her own story.

If I could meet her now, I would hug her and tell her I am sorry, but I would also let her know how brave she is, how worthy she is, how strong she is.

Nestled deep, deep down is a strength that is all her. And one day, she will know it and she will own it.

She will walk this world, defiantly herself.

She will make art and write her poems and, courageously, put them out into the world.

She will fall in love and know that those that came before, were never meant to be forever.

She will lose people, and she will cry for them, but she will keep going, knowing it is all a part of life. She will still miss them, mourn them, love them, but she will move forward.

She will rise higher than she ever dared to dream.

She will stand up for herself.

She will stand up for what’s right.

She will still have her bad days, those broken off pieces still not returned, but she knows the bad days will pass.

She knows she has grown so much, that the holes left by the broken off pieces now seem so much smaller.

She knows she is still a work in progress.

Always growing.

Always learning.

Always moving forward, no matter how slowly.

She knows she will never be whole again, but it is okay.

She has to keep going, she has her story to tell.