Dear Me: I’m So Sorry You Wanted to Die; Thank You for Not Ending It

Dear Me,

I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to survive.

I’m sorry I made you perform all the time. Sorry I made you smile through stomachaches. Sorry I told you you were lazy every time you needed rest. Sorry I called you broken when you were doing your best. Sorry I made you prove your worth with suffering.

I’m sorry I handed out your energy like candy to people who didn’t even ask how you were doing. I’m sorry I praised you for shrinking, applauded you for pleasing, and convinced you that being loved meant being useful.

I’m sorry for all the ways I abandoned you while trying to be “good.”

I’m sorry I believed the loud ones who said you were too much. I’m sorry I believed the quiet ones who said nothing at all. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you from the hands, the words, the silences. I’m sorry I kept you in places where you had to flinch to be safe. I’m sorry I taught you to flinch before anything even happened.

I’m sorry I made you sit through conversations that drained you, families that judged you, relationships that erased you. I’m sorry I made you feel like their comfort mattered more than your truth.

I’m sorry for all the times I thought you were the problem.

You weren’t the problem. You were the one carrying the whole thing.

You were the glue. The secret keeper. The translator. The one who kept the peace while quietly falling apart. The one who didn’t know who to tell. The one who didn’t think anyone would believe her.

I’m sorry I left you alone in the dark with a to-do list and no light.

But baby—we made it out.

I remember the night you almost didn’t stay. I remember the stillness. The bargaining. The terrifying peace of giving up.

I remember how quiet it got inside your chest. How the world didn’t seem real—just far away.

And I remember the flicker—
The one that said, just one more night. Just try again tomorrow.

That flicker was everything. And now?

We live in what that flicker saved.

I don’t know how we did it. I just know we didn’t give up.

I’m so proud of you for not giving up. Even when it felt like disappearing would be a relief.

I’m proud of you for not letting the suicidal thoughts become the final story. I’m proud of you for crying instead. For getting mad instead. For deciding “not this.”

You didn’t fall apart. You fell inward.
You met the heat of your own fury and chose to wield it instead of run from it.
That was the beginning of your return.

I’m proud of you for quitting things you weren’t allowed to quit. For walking away from people who made you question your worth. For sitting in your car and whispering, I want more than this.

I’m proud of you for wanting more. And I’m proud of you for going out and getting it.

Because now?

You love mornings.

You wake up with ideas so big you have to whisper to them while brushing your teeth just to remember. You get excited about breakfast. You get overwhelmed with inspiration. There are so many things you want to do now that you’re not busy surviving.

You don’t apologize for resting anymore.
You don’t fawn to keep the peace.
You learned that peace without truth is just a prettier cage.
And you refused to stay hidden in it.

You don’t attend conversations where your name isn’t welcome.

You have peace now. You built it.

You stopped asking the world for permission to exist.
You wrote your name in fire and said, this is mine.

And the people?

The ones who couldn’t see you unless you were bleeding? Gone.

The ones who made you doubt your worth when you were happy? Gone.

The ones who taught you that love meant suffering? Gone.

You found a different kind of love.
The kind that doesn’t punish.
The kind that doesn’t disappear when you need space.
The kind that asks how you’re doing—and waits for the answer.

You built a safe family. A real one.
One that laughs loud and rests often.
One where no one’s afraid to say no.

And your body?

She doesn’t flinch anymore.

She doesn’t grind her teeth at night.
She doesn’t fake pleasure or freeze during conflict.
She doesn’t wake up afraid of what’s waiting.

She remembers now that she belongs to you—
not to their stories, their systems, or their shame.

She trusts you now.

Because every time you said no, she heard:
We’re free now.

And me?

I get to write love letters to the one who almost didn’t make it.
I get to whisper, thank you for carrying me through the years I couldn’t carry myself.
I get to hold your hand with both of mine and say:

You were never too much.
You were just always enough in a world that asked you to forget.

You stopped dimming to be digestible.
You stopped folding to be forgivable.
You remembered that love without freedom is just control in costume.

Here’s what I want you to know:

You didn’t ruin anything by putting yourself first.

The people who faded were supposed to.
The guilt you felt was grief.
The fear you carried was ancestral.
The spark you still have? Divine.

Choosing yourself wasn’t betrayal.
It was initiation.

Every no you whispered was a sacred yes to your own life.

You made it out.
You made it home.
You made it real.

And now?

You are the safe place you always needed.

I love you. I’m not leaving you again.

Not even for them.

Because Will is holy.
And now that it’s yours again,
you will never forget.