A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Younger Me,

You were always trying so hard to be enough. Quiet enough. Not too loud. Not too sensitive. Not too much.

I see you — holding your breath in rooms that didn’t feel safe to take up space in. Shrinking when you wanted to soar. Overachieving, overthinking, over giving.

If I could hug you now, I’d whisper something gentle: You were never too much. You were just blooming early. And the world wasn’t ready for your kind of light.

You thought growth meant medals, degrees, checklists. A promotion. A thinner body. A timeline that ticked: Engaged. Married. Mother. Settled.

But growth, my love, turned out to be something else entirely. It’s choosing rest without guilt. It’s feeling the heartbreak and not rushing to fill the silence. It’s losing who you thought you were supposed to be — And slowly, painfully, becoming who you actually are.

I wish someone told you it’s okay to want love and solitude. To crave connection and freedom. To be ambitious without needing to prove your worth every second of the day.

Because here I am — 31 years old, still single. No ring, no wedding hashtags, no baby names picked out. Only me, Allah, and this quiet space of becoming. A space where dreams are still welcome. And pressure, finally, has somewhere else to go.

The world taught us that being a high achiever is everything. That you have to hustle hard, build a name, be exceptional — As if that’s the price for deserving softness. As if women like us don’t get to pause until we’ve done it all.

But I’ve learned: The real achievement? Is exhaling. Is coming home to yourself. Is waking up and not needing to win the day to feel like you matter.

You gave me that foundation, even when you didn’t know it. Curiosity. Kindness. Resilience. You believed in softness when the world told you to armor up.

And maybe, just maybe, we’re not late. Maybe we’re exactly where we’re meant to be. Single, yes. But not empty. Yearning, yes. But not ungrateful. Still growing, still hopeful. Still us.

So, thank you. Thank you for surviving what I now get to heal from. Thank you for trying so hard when you didn’t know another way. Thank you for dreaming, even when it hurt.

I’m not perfect. But I’m finally free. And that is more than enough.

Love always,

The version of you who finally exhaled.