#a letter to my younger self

[thatcrazywitch]

to my former self:

someday, you're going to wake up, and the weight of everything you carry won't sit so heavy on your chest. not because you lost it, but because you're strong enough to breathe again.

someday, you'll wake up and your first thought won't be about surviving on anger and spite. instead, you'll go for a long walk to watch the sunrise, and realize you're thriving.

someday, you'll take a photo where your smile reaches your eyes again, and that's okay, because after all this time, you've finally internalized that it's okay not to be okay.

and i know 'someday' feels vague, and far away, and you cannot fathom carrying on with all this pain, but 'someday' will come, slowly, and then a at once.

[morg-among-the-stars]

Hi, Morgan. This you from the future, I am nineteen years old.

If I use too many big words, then please take this letter to the library. I am sure Mrs. Libkins won’t mind reading it to you, or at least helping you figure it out; you’re a very bright girl, after all.

I am nineteen years old, you are six years old. You’re getting a hard time from your teachers. You like to rock in your chair and for whatever reason, everyone around you has a problem with that. I will tell you, even all this time later, I still don’t get what all the fuss is about.

You will be fine, I want to know that. Things will, unfortunately, get worse for you. But you will come out on the other side. You are strong, a very strong girl. I don’t mean to scare you; you will have moments of joy in-between all the pain, but things will be rough for a long time. They never really stop being rough, but things do ease up. You learn how to manage things, how to manage yourself.

For a long time, you will be alone. You’ll be adverse to the other girls in your class in elementary and middle school, but you’ll meet a nice, nerdy girl in a technology class in sixth grade and you will find peace in having a girl on your side. A girl who thinks you’re funny. A girl who tries to understand you the best she can. You two will have bumps in the road, big bumps, even. You’ll go months without talking and you will feel alone again, you will be scared of what being alone means. But it isn’t your fault that your other friends will move away; that is what we call a product of circumstance.

It isn’t your fault.

I’ll tell you about your friends: the girl from your tech class and two others will have the greatest impact, they will get you through school.

The first is a boy with long, curly hair that you mistake for a girl when you first meet him. He cuts his hair in the middle of sixth grade and you were used to it when it was long, you liked it a little better. He is tall, very tall and he gives wonderful hugs. He loves cartoons and he talks about them a lot. He loves Adventure Time and Gravity Falls and other greats, and you will spend a lot of time with him during lunch, looking at fan-art online and listening to him ramble. You’ll fall in love with him, a (not-so) little crush, but it won’t feel right. You’ll think about him often, but the idea of being his girlfriend makes you feel sick. The idea of kissing him or, Heaven forbid, marrying him, are thoughts you avoid when your family asks about him. He moves away during eleventh grade and you don’t get to properly say goodbye. You still call him or message him sometimes, but that’s part of growing up. Things are alright.

And the second is a kid who is very, very short. He tells you that he was a girl in a past life, and that isn’t a completely foreign concept. You met a kid like him in middle school, and that middle school boy was on your side. You were both outcasted for completely separate reasons; you got to see that someone had it worse than you, really worse. That boy from middle school is doing alright now.

But you meet the very, very short boy in high school and you fall in love with the girl he once was in that past life. You couldn’t tell a soul. And you felt relief when he told you he was a boy and not a girl. You couldn’t be liable for being queer.

He is the first person you ever meet you has depression, he says it right out loud on the days where the sky is gray and heavy. And even on the sunniest of days, he was still down. You understood it but you didn’t know how to help. You ask him very literally at thirteen years old, “How can I help make you happy?” and he laughs tiredly and tells you that’s not how it works. You would do anything for him, he becomes your best friend for a short time. (Not for long, don’t worry) You will give up yourself to help him, and you have to gather the pieces of Morgan up again.

You succeed, I told you that you are bright.

Strangely, the nerdy girl who grows up with you becomes the one you fall in love with. But this cannot be denied. You are liable. You tell her and for a moment in time, she is liable in her own way. But nothing ever happens, she beat around the bush of things she wanted, of how she wanted you, to love you.

You decide to get over her and you do it in the worst way possible; you fall in love again, but this love is so, so cruel. This person violates your soul, kicks and punches your heart that is always trying to repair itself. Over and over again, being kicked and ripped to shreds. It hurts, God, does it hurt you. You shouldn’t be hurt, you’re a good person. You don’t deserve to be hurt like you were. You’re over your nerdy best friend, but at what cost?

Things come to a head and the world implodes, you lose that love (for the better, was it really ever love if it hurt so much?) and you lose your best friend for the worst; you don’t talk to her for a long time.

But, even alone, you are okay. You manage, you live and I have always been proud of you for doing so.

Time goes on and spring comes. You’ve always liked springtime. You like the flowers and warm air, and chirping birds outside your window (you called them “spring birds” when you’d hear a certain birdsong. Even as an adult, you still call them that. Some things stay the same, and that’s alright).

With spring, you make amends. You have your nerdy, kind, loving best friend again, but she’s grown up some. So have you.

You make amends and come across springtime as a person. Pretty red hair, a smile that you think about often (you think about it a lot, your heart feels warm when you see it), a soft voice that could be its own birdsong; that’s how you feel about this girl who you would’ve loved to sit with while Mrs. Libkins read stories to you in some other, distant universe.

Morgan, it takes time, but you fall in love for a fifth time. Five has always been your lucky number. You trust springtime, you let her warmth in. She fills up the cracks of your heart with golden sunlight and you begin to trust again. It takes a long time. Sometimes, you push her away. You worry that she will fall into the patterns of those before her, but she doesn’t. You are safe. You grow up and find love and you find safety.

Feels good to know, doesn’t it? You get bullied in school and the world implodes around you, and you are scared. But you have good friends and the sweetest partner you could have ever dreamed of and a bright mind, always. Things turn out alright.

Now, your life isn’t perfect. It definitely is not perfect. But you learn that perfection doesn’t exist. Mom and Dad still fight and your baby sister grows up and you sit together and wait for the storm to pass; wait for the fight to end.

The tiny, waddling baby that you know becomes a big kid and, my goodness, she is cool. You grow up beside her and you help her all that you can. She’s your best friend in her own way, and she always will be.

You are always curious about the world and that doesn’t end. You have good people who ask about your curiosities and who adore your mind.

Morgan, you are small now, and you are worried about the future. But let me tell you one final time: you will be alright.

You will always end up on the other side, even with a few scars or bruises. You will be alright.

With love and big hugs,

Morgan, thirteen years into the future <3

[helpermaddi]

I’ve been working through a self-love workbook and wanted to share the letter i wrote to my younger self. Also a bonus pic of me when i was really little (:

[slightlyspooky]

Dear Gavin,

I hope you're doing well. We knew each other from middle school until early high school. I liked the way you would pick me up & carry me around. I remember you being funny and kind.

You asked me one year if I was gay, and I told you no. The next year, you came out as gay yourself. I wasn't lying, I just didn't know. Turns out I'm bi. I really fumbled on that one

[altruisticenigma]

I am 26, I am about to turn 27.

I am interested in doll collecting, just got fascinated with Lolita fashion, like to read, a Vocaloid lover (in random, sporadic bursts) and on the weekends play FFXIV. I’m engaged, getting married next year. I have colored hair. I have a septum piercing. I want more tattoos (always).

I am still struggling with trauma, mental illness, etc. I go to therapy. I remind myself to eat well. I work out to manage stress. But I’m learning what it means to have boundaries with myself and others, when before that was deprived from me. I’m learning to trust. I’m learning how to love my inner child, and grow alongside them. I’m trying to learn to let go of control.

I am 26, I am about to turn 27. I am no longer surviving anymore, I am learning to live life.

[i-write-when-i-feel-things]

I give fifteen year old me a hug

her head reaches to just above my shoulder

her starched gi scratches my skin

she has no idea this is the last time she'll wear it

I give fourteen year old me a hug

she begs me to make them pay

I run a hand over her knotted hair

and tell her a story about the sunrise

I give twelve year old me a hug

her tears soak my shirt

I do not have the heart to tell her

that this ache will never leave

I give nine year old me a hug

she gives me a toothy grin

and asks if we grew up to be just like sissy

I tell her we grew up to be a princess

I give five year old me a hug

she has too many crayons for her little hands

I will cherish the marks they leave on my pants

I forgot what it was like to see life in full color

I give my mother a hug

She has not yet met me

I am still just in the swell of her belly

And I tell her she is beautiful

[ninetynine-centdreams]

still from A Letter to My Younger Self by Stella Malfilatre

watch here

[mortalwombatsworld]

A little view of the past

I promise all of this is not gonna last

Trust me, I know

Ya no quiero que llores

The universe is gonna give you muchas flores

Quítate ese miedo

You'll be a lot more trust me, yo te entiendo

[halcyerene]

So many things have changed in the past several years that if I met my sixteen-year old self today, it would be like meeting another person—an important old friend of mine. I have significantly changed in almost every aspect: physically, emotionally, and mentally, but it doesn't give me much surprise that I am almost entirely not the same person I have been. So many things have happened. I've made several wrong decisions, have gotten broken and wounded by most, have learned something by some. I have loved and trusted the wrong people and have moved on. I have been searching for myself for years and have found me. I figured I was just lying inches deep beneath the sand, waiting for the waves to reach me and take the sand with them—enough to leave me exposed beneath the bright, beautiful sun, like an ornate shell newly unearthed. If I were to meet my sixteen-year old self again, and even the younger versions of myself, I'd tell them I have done so much more than what I had originally thought I could, and I'd thank them for all the difficulties they had gone through, all the pain they had endured. I wouldn't have been me now if it hadn't been for them and all the things they had been through.

To my young, innocent, ignorant, and impulsive younger selves; thank you and I love you. I am so proud of you and what you have become. 💗

[alrissamariam]

A Letter to my Younger Self; If I Could Hold Your Hand

21 years ago, we were born on the 7th of August at approximately 6:45PM. A healthy, just a little premature baby girl that was thought should’ve been a baby boy. 

We were blessed with three older siblings who took turns holding us as a newborn and the tales of our childhood was a wild one–if we consider the fact that they might have locked us up in the room one day while we were taking a nap at the age of three, and when we cried for the maid to open the door and finally stepped out, they sang Baha Men’s Who Let The Dogs Out.

We didn’t know what we wanted to be growing up. But we knew what others wanted us to be. A doctor to save lives. A lawyer to prevent a disaster. A chef to serve. A baker to satisfy. An engineer–because according to mother, we should be smart enough. 

None of what we wanted.

When we turned thirteen, we got so into the army and marching, we did it for five years straight. The first three years were tough, I won’t lie to you. There were only a handful of people that believed in us, and being in high school, that whole thing was all that mattered to us. It was our big thing.

Weekend family breakfasts missed, classes ditched and dinners ruined from how tired we’d be when we came home. That was the start of our poor eating habits. If I could hold your hand while I inform you of this, I would but sadly, the world doesn’t work that way.

It wasn’t just the fact that we were so tired after all the activities from school that bothered our appetite. It was also the constant insults from mother. The words she’d spew about our skin tone, our hair, our tired eyes, our slim wrists, our obvious cheekbones.

We kept it to ourselves because we lacked the energy to entertain such bullshit, but that didn’t mean we didn’t take it to heart because.. what kind of mother says those things to her own daughter?

We had never put a label or diagnosed ourselves to what we were suffering from, but she did. It was like she was proud of it every single time she called us out on it, but when the family was around, she turned into the most caring and greatest parental figure as she expressed her worries like a sick parent.

If I could hold your hand, I would clutch it tightly as I tell you the story of how mother called us anorexic, laughed in our face as we struggled to finish our meal and scolded us for needing an extra bit of sugar to get through the day.

If I could hold your hand, I would grab your shoulders softly as I tell you the story of how her brother, our uncle, continuously broke us down according to our weight and appearance, right before making inappropriate comments about our body shape and ass. 

If I could hold your hand, I would cup your face and remind you to not let it get to you. But then I’d realise how that was easier said than done. Because it did get to you. It did ruin you and it did fuck us up.

If I could hold your hand, I would drag you away from the three-bedroom apartment where mother yelled in the morning after pulling us off the bed by our feet, letting us fall to the ground and hit our head, right before she yelled in our face about what kind of a shitty girl we are just because there was one unwashed cup in the sink that wasn’t even ours.

If I could hold your hand, I would shield you from the view of the day uncle tried to hit our brother. I promise you, brother was trying to protect us, especially from mother as she forced us to wear something we didn’t want to. Uncle just decided to step in and act like the father figure he never was, which resulted in a screaming match with our brother, right before uncle cornered him and tried to punch him.

If I could hold your hand, I would cover your ears as mother stormed to us, threw the clothes to our face so harshly that the button jagged our cheek, and yelled at us with the words this is all your fault.

If I could hold your hand, I would push you behind me as we witnessed the biggest and worst fight between our siblings and mother. The four a.m. fights and the moment that mother attempted to drive us out of the house, the scene of our big sister protecting all her little siblings and taking charge of the situation completely before we finally realised that maybe, choosing wouldn’t be as difficult as we thought it would be.

But, if I could hold your hand, I’d walk you through how much I meant it when I said we were blessed with three older siblings, right before I tell you about the nights we’d all sleep in one room and come up with the dumbest thing to do like jump from the top of the cupboard and onto a bunch of pillows and blankets on the floor without any assurance if it was safe or not.

If I could hold your hand, I’d point to the spots on your palm where our brother held the most as he helped us ride our first bike without training wheels after mother decided that it wasn’t her task to see her kids grow up.

If I could hold your hand, I’d teach you the ways our big sister taught us how to make an origami shuriken while our other sister stood behind us in an attempt to block out the sound of our parents arguing outside the doors of safety that is our room.

If I could hold your hand, I’d brush your hair in the mornings before school and remind you of how much you are loved, even if it’s just by three people. How much they don’t care what career you choose, so long as it’s what you wanted. How much it doesn’t matter that mother only wanted you to find a rich man just so you could live rich while she flaunts to her friends and family.

If I could hold your hand, I would sit at the table with you while your tears fell near your plate of untouched food as we sat in the dark, and your heart was breaking loudly yet so silent because nobody around us could hear it except for me. 

If I could hold your hand, I would prevent that hand from burning yourself, from hurting yourself because you felt like you weren’t good enough for the world after being constantly reminded of the fact. It is not a fact. It is a lie.

If I could hold your hand, I would talk to you as we shared small bites of our favourite foods and desserts to help better our horrible eating habits that had resulted in us crashing at the hospital, alone.

If I could hold your hand, I would tell you how proud I am of you while you were at your lowest, thinking that nobody believed in you when you wanted to write. How amazed I am that you kept pushing through, even with all the harsh words and insults thrown at you, because look at you go now.

If I could hold your hand, I would. Because nobody held mine and I’d be damned if nobody held yours.

[ms-big-blue-eyes]

It breaks my heart

Thinking about the years that I spent

Sad and alone

Wishing that I loved myself.

It breaks my heart

To think about the person I love so dearly

And how they hated themself.

[lifeofaie]

most of the men find their mother in you. learn to understand this when looking for your man.

[slightlyspooky]

Speaking as someone who was a 15 year old boy during gamer-gate:

TERFism and related ideals that simplify the world into woman-victim/man-perpetrator interactions feel like they were grown in test-tubes to radicalize young men to the right "against" these ideals without ever exposing them to the actual feminism they've been radicalized against

Obviously, this is harmful to trans & other queer folk as well as women in general, but I think that's secondary to the goal of motivating a maleable political base

IDK where I'm going with this.

I guess to the people out there who feel othered, different or unwanted; try to find community in what you like instead of what you dislike

[strange-ramblings]

Someday, it’ll a be our last day just the two of us

[pagan-posting]

Listen. Abandoning the idea of what a proper pagan is was the most rewarding experience. Your intuition is stronger than you think.

This isn't a science. You don't have to treat it like one. Go with your heart, go with your intuition. It will help you grow more than you've ever dreamed of.

[positively-bi]

Young trans people, I want you to know there is a place for you in STEM.

You are welcome in STEM.

There are trans people in STEM (hi!).

There are trans allies in STEM.

There are trans-friendly and trans-supportive initiatives (I attended a trans maths conference this year).

It may not always be easy but there is a place for you.

You can make it in STEM if you want to.