This piece is an intro letter of reckoning — not with death itself, but with the versions of me I believed had to die for me to survive. It’s an honest reflection on my teenage years, when pain and confusion felt heavier than hope. Writing it wasn’t easy, but it reminded me that healing often asks us to revisit the places we swore we’d never go back to — not to live there again, but to set our younger selves free.
Trigger Warning:
(Death, suicide, sensitive subjects)
Multiple times, actually.
I once heard someone liken the struggle of teenage suicidal ideation to the pursuit of the death of the child within us — wanting to kill off that younger version of ourselves to recreate who we are as adults.
Slaying the innocence that sheltered us for so long.
The part of us that allows us to believe the world is still pure… that we’re still pure.
At times, that idea helped me through the dark moments.
But as God told Lot and his family not to look back, I find myself standing as a pillar of salt — trying to work out these leftover feelings.
The little girl in me still cries out to be released from the pain, while I’ve only recently learned that the darkness came from burying it for so long.
This isn’t just about the “inner child” trope.
It’s about the constriction we place on versions of ourselves we don’t deem fit to exist — the parts that carry heavy memories.
And the story I’m telling today just so happens to be about my youth.
I caught myself skimming through old videos while searching for reference pictures from my blonde-hair days.
From the outside, they just show a regular teenager’s life — but for me, they carry a darkness that strips my soul bare with every glance.
Images of a bright-smiled, outwardly confident girl who smoked too much cannabis and drank too much for her age flashed across the screen.
Every time I find myself down memory lane, I feel a lingering emotion I’ve never quite understood — a complex mix of grief and compassion for a girl I haven’t yet forgiven, but still feel jealous of.
Jealous, because she was confident and sure of herself.
She expressed herself freely and never put anyone else before her — which made her selfish and impulsive, and hard to forgive.
But I hold compassion for her, because she knew no better.
She relied solely on her own judgment to navigate things she didn’t yet understand.
And I grieve for the whole picture.
I hate her for how confident she was — how ignorance fueled it.
The same confidence I struggle so hard to “create” now was worn boldly on the chest of a naive teen.
She played small in all the wrong places, using negative stereotypes to create a “brand” for cheap thrills, never thinking about longevity.
She played the role so well she sold everyone around her a dream of someone she wasn’t at heart.
She was so self-reliant that she dismissed any attempt at correction or guidance, because she believed she had to get it on her own.
Nobody could understand her — not even herself.
But I also cry for her.
I cry for the pain she carried that had no way out.
For the ways she tried to cope because no one taught her healthy ways to regulate her emotions.
For the loneliness that sat in her heart after being deserted by those she loved.
A girl so scared to open her heart that she pushed away anything that tried to come close.
Who scolded those who cared.
I cry for the girl who felt she had no other way out than to end her life — who sat in the storms of her spirit, cursing the same rain that was trying to wash her pain away.
The girl who wore her pain as armor, feeling the sharp blades that pressed into her skin as she stabbed herself in the back each time.
She fought so hard and gave up all at once.
When things got too heavy, she let go.
The day she decided she didn’t have to pretend anymore, the act she had curated for so long slipped — and she slipped with it.
The future she once imagined as an escape no longer mattered in the face of the girl shadowed by her demons.
At the time, I didn’t know God, and I had no faith.
So it’s hard to say now if things were ordained or if I simply messed up.
Most days, it feels like I did mess up — and I “what-if” myself into a full episode of depersonalization.
But I know God now.
And I know He knows better than I.
I don’t have to understand why things had to happen a certain way.
I just have to surrender.
Resenting myself for not being stronger — for making decisions out of pain instead of wisdom — wasn’t explicitly God’s plan, but it was part of the process.
That girl gave me strength.
She taught me that life isn’t always about smiling through it.
She teaches me lessons each time my mask breaks and the heaviness of what I carry spills through the cracks.
Her willingness to feel it all, even when she wanted to give up — that was her fight.
I thought I watched her die,
but writing this showed me she’s been here all along.
She’s the reason I can’t “create” confidence — because it’s already ingrained in me.
I don’t need to rewrite my nature.
The trials that young girl faced were necessary.
They showed her strength, grit, and an undeniable will to keep going, even without wisdom.
Now, as I grow — with more knowledge and experience — I realize I spent so long shaming her when I should’ve been learning from her.
The darkness in those memories doesn’t come from her being a worse version of me…
It’s because those were the seeds that allowed me to grow into who I am today.
Those seeds are now my roots —
and from the pain of growing down,
I get to experience the beauty of growing up.
I hope this message reaches you well.
See you soon.
Afterword
If this piece found you, maybe it’s because there’s a version of you still waiting to be seen — not fixed, not rewritten, just witnessed.
We all have past selves we’ve buried under shame, regret, or survival. But the truth is, they never truly die. They linger in our laughter, our fears, our instincts — quietly hoping we’ll come back for them.
So tonight, or whenever you feel ready, try whispering a thank-you to the you that got you this far. The one who carried the weight before you even knew what healing meant.
Because she didn’t fail.
She planted the roots that became you.
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