What Would You Say to the Younger Version of Yourself?

When I look back on my life twenty years ago, a sophomore in college, I didn’t realize at the time how life-altering the decisions I was making were. Decisions that, while they ultimately set me free two decades down the road, caused a lot of pain and heartache in the process. Decisions that, had I had more self-worth within myself, might have me in a different place today.

It’s easy to get in a mindset of beating up on yourself in that kind of situation. Of thinking, “how could I have been so dumb?”. But I have extreme compassion for that younger version of myself. Admiration of her strength, and compassion for the situations she put herself in that caused her a lot of harm.

I Was a Young Woman Who Wanted to Be Loved

When I think about who I was back then, I don't want to reduce her to the insecure girl who stayed in an unhealthy relationship.

She was so much more than that.

I was driven. I was busy. I was taking classes, working jobs, participating in extracurricular activities, and constantly finding new things to be interested in. I had strong values and beliefs, and even then, I knew that some of the things I cared about were different from what many of my peers cared about.

In some ways, I was already very much myself.

But, I was also deeply insecure about being myself.

I had spent much of high school feeling left out because I never really dated much. I watched other people have experiences that I desperately wanted, and I carried a quiet fear that there was something about me that made me different in a way that would ultimately leave me alone.

So when I finally had an opportunity at a serious relationship, I wanted it badly.

And when you want something badly enough, sometimes you become willing to overlook the things you would otherwise question.

I didn't consciously decide that I was going to ignore red flags. I don't remember thinking, I know this isn't healthy, but I'm going to stay anyway.

It was much more subtle than that.

I think a part of me was simply so relieved to finally feel chosen that I didn't want to look too closely at what came with being chosen.

I wanted to belong.

I wanted to feel normal.

I wanted to know that I wasn't going to be left behind.

And underneath all of that was something I didn't have the words for yet:

I believed, on some level, that I had to beg for love.

I Thought If I Worked Hard Enough, I Could Fix It

There is something else I understand about myself now that I didn't understand then.

When something is difficult, I tend to work harder.

If something isn't working, I try to fix it.

If I care about something, I don't give up easily.

Those qualities can be beautiful. They have helped me through some of the hardest seasons of my life. But back then, I didn't understand that there are situations where working harder isn't the answer.

So I applied the same instinct and stubborn drive to my relationship.

I tried to fix things.

I tried to fix the relationship, and I tried to fix my boyfriend. When he pulled away, I tried harder to get his attention. When I was afraid he was interested in another girl, I tried harder to get his attention back on me. When we fought, I tried to figure out what I had done wrong and what I could do differently so that we could get back to a place of peace.

I became incredibly focused on making the relationship work.

The problem was that I was trying to create security through my own effort in a relationship that was making me feel increasingly insecure.

And I think there are a lot of people who understand this instinct.

We are taught to work through things. To communicate. To be committed. To not give up when something gets hard.

Those are good lessons when you're working with someone who is also willing to show up, communicate, grow, and take responsibility.

But there is a point where perseverance stops being commitment and starts becoming self-abandonment.

Sometimes the thing that isn't working isn't asking you to work harder.

Sometimes it is asking you to listen.

I Knew It Felt Chaotic. I Just Didn't Know That Wasn't Normal.

The relationship felt like a roller coaster.

There would be conflict, tears, fear, and uncertainty, followed by temporary peace. Then something would happen again, and I would find myself right back in that emotional upheaval.

I was constantly worried about other girls. I was always wondering whether he was talking to someone behind my back or whether I was about to be replaced.

After fights, I was usually the one apologizing and trying to make things okay. Sometimes I apologized for things I hadn't actually done wrong or for reactions I had to things that were happening to me.

I didn't hear "I'm sorry" at all from him.

Instead, I learned to appease.

I learned to fawn.

I learned to take whatever responsibility I could find if it meant we could get back to temporary peace.

And when he would break up with me or give me some kind of ultimatum, I would go into an even deeper tailspin.

There were days when I would be at work crying in a closet, fighting with him on the phone because I couldn't hold myself together enough to keep the relationship and my life separate.

That was so unlike me.

I was a capable person. I was ambitious. I was professional and mature, especially for my age. I was used to being busy and productive and accomplishing things.

So when I couldn't seem to get myself together, I became ashamed of myself.

I started wondering if I was crazy. Other people around me began to question my mental health, too, and that only made everything more confusing.

But there is something I understand now that I didn't have the perspective to understand then.

I didn't have many examples of peaceful relationships.

Chaos was familiar to me in other relationships in my life. I knew what it felt like to have conflict. I knew what emotional unpredictability felt like. I knew what it felt like to work hard to repair relationships.

I didn't have enough experience with relationships where people could disagree and still feel safe with one another. Where someone could say, "I'm sorry," without being forced into it. Where two people could take responsibility for their own behavior instead of one person carrying the emotional burden for both.

So although I knew the relationship felt chaotic, I didn't fully understand that the chaos itself was part of the problem.

Sometimes we don't recognize that something is unhealthy because it is familiar. We don't always know what peace feels like when we have spent our lives learning how to survive uncertainty.

I Thought My Fear Meant Something Was Wrong With Me

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to stop being so afraid.

I thought maybe I was too jealous. Maybe I was too insecure. Maybe I needed to trust more. Maybe I was too emotional.

I was looking at my reactions and trying to correct myself without really understanding what was happening around me.

And I think there is an important distinction here.

Our emotions are not always perfect messengers. Anxiety can come from old wounds. Insecurity can follow us into relationships that are actually safe. We all have things within ourselves that we need to heal.

But sometimes our reactions are also telling us that something doesn't feel safe.

That doesn't mean every anxious feeling is intuition.

It means we shouldn't automatically assume that the answer is to silence ourselves.

Sometimes we need to become curious.

Why am I constantly worried about being replaced?

Why do I feel like I have to compete for someone's attention?

Why can't I relax?

Why am I always waiting for the next fight?

Why do I feel like I have to prove that I'm worthy of being chosen?

Those questions might not give us immediate answers. But they can begin bringing us back to ourselves.

I Was More Afraid of Being Alone Than I Was of Losing Myself

I think one of the hardest things for me to admit now is how much fear of being left behind shaped my choices.

I was afraid he would find another girl (which was exactly what happened years down the road when I finally got divorced and away from the relationship with him, too).

I was afraid I would never find anyone else.

I was afraid of being alone.

I was afraid that ending the relationship would mean I had failed.

I even remember being afraid to study abroad because I worried that if I weren't there to keep an eye on him, he would move on to someone else.

When I think about that now, I feel so much compassion for that girl.

She didn't understand that a relationship wasn't supposed to require her to put her life on hold just to keep someone from leaving.

She didn't understand that if someone needed constant monitoring to remain faithful, monitoring wasn't going to create the kind of relationship she actually wanted.

And she certainly didn't understand that being alone would be painful, but abandoning yourself could cost you far more.

I think that is one of the hardest lessons we learn as we grow older:

Sometimes the thing we are most afraid of losing is the very thing we need to let go of.

Not because it doesn't matter.

But because keeping it requires us to keep losing ourselves.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

If someone had sat beside me back then, I wish they had told me something very simple.

"You deserve so much more than this."

(And thankfully today, twenty years later, I have men in my life that remind me of that.)

Not in a way that made me feel stupid for staying.

Not in a way that made me feel ashamed that I couldn't simply walk away.

I wish someone had helped me understand that wanting a relationship did not mean I had to accept whatever relationship came along.

I wish someone had told me that being selective about who I dated was not evidence that something was wrong with me.

That my values mattered.

That my standards mattered.

That being different from my peers did not mean I needed to lower those standards to find love.

And most of all, I wish someone had told me that I could have a relationship that was peaceful.

At the time, I don't think I fully understood what that meant.

I thought relationships were supposed to be difficult. I thought conflict was just part of love. I thought the fact that I was constantly trying to fix things meant I was committed.

I didn't know that love could be kind.

That it could be communicative.

That it could be loyal.

That it could be compassionate.

That the person you love could actually take responsibility for hurting you instead of making you responsible for restoring the relationship every time something went wrong.

I didn't know that love could feel like somewhere you could finally exhale.

If I Could Sit Beside Her Now

If I could actually sit across from that young woman today, I don't think I would spend much time explaining the future to her.

I think I would simply let her know that I see her. I would tell her that I understand why she is afraid. I would tell her that I understand why she is trying so hard to make this relationship work. I understand why being alone feels terrifying. I understand why she is questioning herself. I understand why she thinks she needs to try harder.

And then I would tell her that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you are going through this.

I'm sorry you feel like you have to compete for someone's attention.

I'm sorry you have started questioning your own sanity.

I'm sorry you think being different means there is something wrong with you.

I'm sorry you believe you have to earn love.

And I'm sorry that you are carrying so much shame for struggling inside a relationship that is making you feel so unsafe.

I think she would cry.

And I think she would cry because someone finally sees her.

Someone finally understands her.

Someone isn't shaming her for the decisions she is making, even though those decisions are taking her down a very difficult path. Someone is looking at her and seeing the values underneath all of the fear. Someone is telling her that there is nothing fundamentally wrong with her.

She is not too much.

She is not unlovable.

She is not destined to be alone.

She is a young woman who desperately wants to be loved and hasn't yet learned that she doesn't have to abandon herself to receive it.

And I think, after she cried, she would hug me.

I think that hug would be about relief.

Relief that someone finally understands.

Relief that someone believes her heart is good.

Relief that someone sees the person underneath the chaos.

And perhaps most of all, relief in realizing that she is worthy of a wonderful and peaceful life.

Maybe Your Younger Self Needs You, Too

I wonder what would happen if we approached our past selves this way more often.

What if instead of asking, Why did I let that happen? we asked, What did I not know yet?

What if instead of saying, I should have known better, we said, I was doing the best I could with the understanding and resources I had at the time.

What if we could acknowledge that we made mistakes without deciding that those mistakes make us bad or foolish?

There is a difference between accountability and shame.

We can take responsibility for the choices we made. We can learn from them. We can recognize the ways we participated in unhealthy patterns and decide that we will not repeat them.

But we don't have to punish the younger version of ourselves forever.

She was learning.

So was I.

And maybe you were, too.

Your Standards Were Never the Problem

One of the things I would most want my younger self to know is that the standards she carried in her heart were not the problem.

She was allowed to want a relationship built on kindness, loyalty, communication, compassion, accountability, and respect.

She was allowed to be selective.

She was allowed to be different from her peers.

She was allowed to want something deeper than what the people around her seemed to want.

And she was allowed to wait for it.

That doesn't mean waiting would have been easy. Being single can be lonely. Feeling different can be lonely. Watching other people move forward while you wonder when your turn will come can be incredibly painful.

But loneliness does not mean your standards are wrong.

Sometimes we compromise what matters most because we are afraid that if we don't take what is available, nothing else will come along.

I wish I could go back and tell that young woman that there are people in the world who will appreciate the very things she thought made her strange.

There are people who will love her values instead of asking her to abandon them.

There are people who will meet her standards instead of convincing her that she shouldn't have any.

And there is a life waiting for her that doesn't require her to beg for someone's attention.

Becoming the Woman She Needed

I can't go back and protect that young woman from everything she experienced.

I can't give her the examples of healthy relationships she didn't have.

I can't erase the years that followed or make her understand something before she was ready to understand it.

But I can do something now.

I can become the woman she needed.

I can listen to myself.

I can trust the things that feel wrong instead of automatically assuming that I am the problem.

I can hold onto my standards even when being alone feels uncomfortable.

I can recognize that peace isn't boring and that chaos isn't proof of passion.

I can stop trying to fix people who aren't taking responsibility for themselves.

I can choose relationships where love feels mutual rather than something I have to constantly earn.

And I can give myself the safety that I spent so many years looking for in other people.

Maybe that's part of what healing really is.

Not going back and wishing we had been smarter. Not endlessly analyzing the choices we made. Not punishing ourselves for the years we spent learning lessons we wish we had known sooner.

Maybe healing is being able to look at the woman you were and finally say, I understand now.

Maybe it is forgiving her without pretending everything she did was okay.

Maybe it is recognizing that she was worthy before she knew how to protect her own worth.

And maybe, eventually, we can stop looking back at our younger selves and asking why they didn't know better.

Maybe we can sit beside them instead. Maybe we can let them cry. Maybe we can hold them.

And maybe we can tell them the thing they needed to hear all along:

There was never anything wrong with you.

You were always worthy of love.

You were always worthy of peace.

And you never had to beg for either one. 🩷