To the old me
To the old me,
I see you. The one who rehearsed conversations in her head and still stayed quiet. The one who thought confidence was an outfit you had to earn before you left the house. You believed being authentic was a risk you couldn’t afford.
I want to tell you what happened today.
I was at the bus stop. Glasses, jeans, sweatshirt. Just me. No armor, no performance. A man walked up and said, “The phones have changed us, haven’t they?”
You would have smiled, nodded, and looked at the ground. But I didn’t. I said, “I remember pay phones and how we communicated better.” And we talked. Really talked. He told me he was late for a meeting at the jail. I told him I hoped it went well. Two strangers, no phones, no filters. Just human.
That’s when I realized how far we’ve come.
You thought being relatable meant being impressive. You thought you had to change yourself for every room, every event, every person. But anyone can dress up for an occasion. What you never knew back then is this: walking into your community as yourself, and speaking without apologizing for who you are, is the real work. And it’s the real freedom.
You didn’t believe people would stay if they saw the unpolished version. You thought your story was something to hide. But shame only survives in silence. The moment you started telling the truth — about the ashes, the cocoon, being unhoused, finding yourself again — the fear lost its grip.
So I’m writing to thank you, and to set you free. Thank you for surviving the parts I now get to speak about. Thank you for writing in your room to pen friends when the world felt too big. That sheltered girl was building a voice she didn’t know she’d need.
You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You don’t have to shrink at bus stops. You don’t have to wait until you’re “ready” to be real. You were always enough. You just didn’t have proof yet.
I do now. I’ve got conversations with strangers. I’ve got keys to my own door. I’ve got a voice that doesn’t shake when I say, “This is who I am.”
Keep going, old me. We make it. We walk down the street, talk to people, and we belong there. No costume required.
With love from the woman you became,
Cathryn
