𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "To the Self I Left Behind" by Kathleen D. Yambot

Layout by: Cristian Tulisana

Published by: Aprilyn Sado 

Date Published: March 20, 2025

Time Published: 4:35 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: A reflective conversation with your past self, acknowledging struggles and celebrating progress

I see you there—standing at the edge of who I used to be, clutching the weight of everything we thought we couldn’t escape. I remember how you used to shrink yourself to fit into spaces that never deserved you. How you mistook survival for living. How you drowned in expectations that were never your own.

And then I hear you—softly, timidly—trying to explain yourself.

"But I had to," you say. "I had to make myself smaller so I wouldn't take up too much space. I had to laugh even when it hurt because being alone felt worse. I had to be what they wanted me to be, or else I’d be nothing at all."

I know you tried. I remember the nights you stared at the ceiling, replaying every word spoken, every step taken, wondering if you had done enough. Your hands trembled before sending a message, afraid of saying the wrong thing. You apologized too often—sometimes for things that weren’t even your fault, sometimes just for existing too loudly. You laughed at jokes that stung, stayed in places that drained you, convinced that being needed was the same as being wanted.

You speak again, more firmly this time.

"And it kept me safe," you insist. "The world beyond what I knew was unpredictable. At least this pain was familiar."

Yes, you were scared. The world outside your comfort—no matter how suffocating—felt predictable. It hurt, but at least you knew what kind of pain to expect. The unknown? That was terrifying.

But I stepped into it.

You hesitate, then ask quietly: "Did it hurt?"

Yes. It did. But it also healed. I let go of the weight that was never mine to carry. I stopped measuring my worth by how much space I could take up in other people’s lives while leaving none for myself. I no longer hesitate before speaking, no longer second-guess whether my presence is too much. I walk into rooms without trying to shrink. I laugh—genuinely, freely, without waiting for permission.

"I don’t know if I could have done that," you whisper.

I know. That’s why I had to.

I won’t ask you to forgive me for leaving you behind. Instead, I’ll thank you—for enduring what you did so I could become who I am. For holding on long enough for me to finally let go.

And if some small part of you still lingers in the corners of my mind, watching from the shadows, I hope you’re proud too.

Because I am.