Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / The Letter You’ve Been Afraid to Write: Apologizing to Your Younger Self | Still Standing
Transcript
- There is a version of you who is still waiting for an apology that never came, and she has been holding her breath for years. It’s time to finally tell her it wasn’t her fault. Take a breath with me. Just one slow, deep inhale, and let it out longer than you breathed in. I want to talk about something heavy today, but not in a way that crushes you. In a way that lifts you. We often think of resilience as this grand, heroic thing—like climbing a mountain or surviving a storm. But sometimes, resilience is just sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom, looking at a cracked mirror, and realizing you were wrong about who you are. And then having the courage to say sorry to the girl in the reflection. I’ve been thinking a lot about the letters we write in our heads. The ones we send via text message that we never hit send on. Or the arguments we rehearse in the shower while washing our hair. We apologize to our bosses, our partners, even our friends when we’re late. But how often do we apologize to ourselves? Specifically, to the younger versions of us who made mistakes, who said too much, who said too little, who wore the wrong clothes, or who stayed in places they shouldn’t have because they didn’t know any better. What did that cost you? That question isn’t meant to be accusatory. It’s meant to be curious. When we refuse to apologize to our younger selves, we carry around a backpack full of rocks. Every time we hesitate to take a risk, every time we shrink ourselves to make others comfortable, every time we punish ourselves for a mistake that happened ten years ago—that’s the weight. It’s the echo of that young girl who needed comfort, not criticism. I remember being twenty-two, working in a corporate job that felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small. I had messed up a presentation. Not a catastrophic failure, just a stumble. A few slides out of order. But my inner voice sounded exactly like my father’s, harsh and unforgiving. I spent three days beating myself up. I thought if I suffered enough, I would learn. I thought shame was a teacher. It wasn’t. Shame was just a thief. It stole my confidence, my joy, and my ability to trust my own instincts for months. And the tragedy is, I could have forgiven myself in five minutes. I just needed someone to tell me it was okay. So why didn’t I give myself that grace? Let’s sit in that for a second. Why is apologizing to our younger selves so hard? I think it’s because we confuse accountability with punishment. We’ve been taught that if we admit we were wrong, we are weak. If we say, 'I was scared,' we are broken. But here is the truth: admitting you were hurt, or confused, or overwhelmed, is the strongest thing you can do. It requires a level of honesty that most people spend their whole lives avoiding. When we look back at our younger selves, we often judge them with the wisdom we have now. We see the red flags we missed. We hear the words we should have said. It’s easy to stand on the shore of the present day and yell at the person in the water, telling them how to swim. But that person in the water was doing the best she could with the life raft she had. She was drowning in uncertainty. She was trying to survive. To apologize to her is to acknowledge her survival. It is to say, 'I see how hard you tried. I see how lonely you felt. And I am so sorry I added to the noise instead of quieting it.' So, how do we do this? How do we actually write this letter? It doesn’t have to be long. It doesn’t have to be poetic. It just has to be true. Start with a date. Maybe the date of a birthday, or a graduation, or the day everything changed. Address it to her by name. Or call her by the nickname you used to love, before the world told you it was childish. Begin with the apology. Say it simply. 'I’m sorry I called you lazy when you were exhausted.' 'I’m sorry I laughed when you cried.' 'I’m sorry I let you believe you weren’t enough.' These are not trivial things. They are the building blocks of your self-worth. Then, offer the perspective only you can give. Tell her what you know now. Tell her that the boy who rejected her was not a reflection of her value. Tell her that the job she lost was a door closing so a window could open. Tell her that she is loved, even if the people around her didn’t know how to show it. And finally, promise her something. Promise her that you will protect her heart from now on. Promise her that you will listen to her gut. Promise her that you will rest when she is tired. This is the pact. This is the moment where you stop fighting yourself and start leading yourself. When you write this letter, you are reclaiming your narrative. For years, your story might have been written by critics, by failures, by fear. But this letter? This is yours. It is written in ink that cannot be erased. It is a declaration of independence from your own inner critic. And it changes everything. Because once you forgive yourself, you stop expecting others to forgive you for things that weren’t even crimes. You stop carrying the burden of perfection. I want you to imagine her face. The younger you. What does she look like? Is she angry? Sad? Hopeful? Look at her. Really look at her. See the freckles, or the acne, or the awkward haircut. See the light in her eyes that hasn’t been extinguished yet. She is waiting for you. She has been waiting for you to come home. And when you apologize, you are bringing her home. You are integrating her. You are saying, 'You are part of me. I honor you. I cherish you.' This practice is not about erasing the past. It’s about changing your relationship to it. The pain may remain, but the shame dissolves. The heaviness lifts. You become lighter, more flexible, more alive. You stop reacting to the world from a place of old wounds and start responding from a place of wholeness. I’m inviting you to try this today. Grab a piece of paper. Or open a note on your phone. It doesn’t matter. Just start. Write one sentence. Just one. 'I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you.' Feel what happens in your body. Does your chest tighten? Does it soften? Let it be whatever it is. There is no right way to feel. There is only the feeling, and your permission to have it. We talked last week about how hard it is to say 'I am struggling,' and how we often use anger as armor. Today, I’m asking you to put down the armor. Drop the shield. Let your hands be empty. Let your heart be open. It feels dangerous, I know. But it is safe here. You are safe here. And she is safe with you. You are the adult now. You are the guardian. You have the power to heal the wound by loving the scar. Take a moment to breathe into that space. Notice the tension leaving your shoulders. Notice the air moving in and out of your lungs. This is life. This is healing. This is you, standing tall, finally ready to embrace the girl who started it all. You are doing good work. You are doing brave work. And you are not alone. Thank you for listening, for caring, and for showing up for yourself today. I’ll be right here next week, keeping the space warm and open for you. Until then, be gentle with your heart. You deserve it. Love you.