Inside me, for a long time, there lived a small window. Not a real window, just something I could feel. On the other side stood a girl, a younger me. She thought love came only to those who never failed, so she never made a mistake, never spoke out of turn. She smiled when she wanted to rest and agreed when she wanted to refuse.
I told myself I had moved past her, but every time I fell short, missed a date, said the wrong thing, or felt too much, I heard her knock. See? Still not there. One Tuesday it rained. I sat down and wrote to her. I said, I remember that night you cried in the bathroom over a B+ on a math test. I remember you stayed up to help a friend even though your own work waited. I told her the world had taught her something false: it said love is a prize you win.
Then I wrote the sentence I had never spoken. You do not need to win anything. You have always been enough. I folded the paper and placed it inside a tin that once held cookies. In my head, I opened that little window and passed the note to her. She did not speak, just rested her head against the glass and breathed out, long and soft.
After that day, I still hear her, but the sound changed. It no longer feels like a judgment; it feels like a quiet voice. Hey, do not lose me, but do not become me. I am learning that healing does not remove the window. It teaches you to open it, to sit in the silence, to say: you did fine, we did fine.
And maybe that is what growing up means. Not running ahead of who you were, but holding her hand and walking slowly, together.