To My Younger Self
You’re hurting, lad.
Not the kind of hurt you can point at,
but the kind that sits in your chest
like a locked room.
You’ll carry nights
where you can’t breathe right,
mornings where you wake up tired
of waking up.
You’ll think the pain means you’re broken.
It doesn’t.
It means you’re still here.
And here’s the part
you’d never believe:
that same pain —
the one that made you hide,
the one that made you quiet,
the one that made you feel
like you were built wrong —
will become the reason
other people keep going.
Your honesty will steady them.
Your cracks will guide them.
Your survival will give them language
for their own storms.
People will read your words
and feel their own pulse again.
They’ll whisper,
“If he can make it through that,
maybe I can too.”
The boy who thought he was nothing
becomes the man
who gives others hope
because he never lied
about the pain it cost him.
Keep walking.
Every step you take
is a light someone else
is following.
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