Dear Little Me, Thank You for Holding On.

You didn’t know it then, but every storm you walked through was shaping something sacred. Every quiet night you cried yourself to sleep was a prayer the future version of you would answer.

I still see you — with those bright eyes full of hope and those small hands learning to be strong too soon. You wanted someone to tell you that it was okay to rest, to be gentle, to not have it all figured out. So here I am, whispering it back across time: you made it, baby girl.

You didn’t let the world harden you completely.
You still believe in love, even when it’s hard to find.
You still laugh from your belly.
You still notice sunsets.
And though your voice trembles sometimes, you still speak truth.

If I could sit beside you now, I’d tell you that the softness you were shamed for is your superpower. That being tender in a world that glorifies toughness is not weakness — it’s legacy. It’s everything grandma hoped her lessons would become.

So, thank you.
Thank you for holding on when you didn’t understand why it hurt.
Thank you for loving people who didn’t yet know how to stay.
Thank you for believing that better was possible — and for leaving the door open for me to walk through.

You didn’t just survive; you bloomed in the cracks.
And every time I choose peace now, it’s for you.

With all my love,
Me

— Raised by 1912