Some Days, I Miss the Version of Me That Didn’t Know

Some days, I miss the version of me that didn’t know how quickly life could change.

The girl who believed plans always worked out. Who thought people always meant what they said. Who assumed tomorrow was promised because today felt normal.

She was lighter.

Not because life was easier, but because she hadn’t learned how heavy grief, disappointment, and growing up could become.

I’ve spent a long time wishing I could go back to her.

But lately I’ve started wondering…

Would I even recognize her anymore?

The woman I am today has cried in hospital parking lots, laughed until she couldn’t breathe, started over more than once, loved people who couldn’t love her back, and somehow kept finding the courage to hope again.

Hope doesn’t come as easily now.

It has to be chosen.

Some mornings it looks like making the coffee.

Some afternoons it looks like answering one more email, folding one more load of laundry, or taking one more step toward the life I’m trying to build.

Some nights it’s simply believing that tomorrow deserves a chance.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t loud.

It rarely announces itself.

It’s hidden inside the ordinary moments—the first genuine laugh after weeks of surviving, the song that finally doesn’t hurt, the memory that brings a smile before it brings tears.

Maybe that’s what growth really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

But carrying the weight differently.

The scars don’t disappear.

You just stop apologizing for having them.

Today I’m grateful for the woman I’ve become—not because she has it all together, but because she keeps showing up anyway.

She keeps creating.

She keeps believing.

She keeps loving.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s more than enough.

If tomorrow asks me to be brave again, I think I will be.

Not because bravery feels easy…

But because I’ve already survived every day I once thought would break me.