The Girl I Used to Be

Close your eyes for a moment…

Imagine walking into a quiet room.

It feels familiar.
Soft light.
A window.
A bed near the wall.

And sitting there…
is a younger version of you.

She’s about ten years old.

Her legs swing gently.
Her hair is slightly untamed.
Her eyes curious… and cautious.

She looks up and says,

“You’re late.”

You pause.

“Late?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to remember me.”

 And suddenly… You do.

You remember singing in the kitchen.

Drawing for hours.

Crying when something felt unfair.

You remember wanting to be creative…
Kind…
Free.

You sit down across from her.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say.

She tilts her head.

“Didn’t you?”

You didn’t mean to change.

You simply noticed what people liked.

They liked it when you were responsible.
Helpful.
High-achieving.
Mature beyond your years.

So you became more of that.

You built yourself around what worked.

Somewhere along the way…
You decided love was something you earned.

If I succeed… I’ll be safe.
If I perform… I’ll belong.
If I achieve… I’ll be enough.

And without realizing it,
your self-worth became tied
to what you do.

The quiet belief
that you are worthy simply because you exist…

grew softer.

She studies you carefully.

“Are you happy?”

You hesitate.

“I’m accomplished.”

She waits.

“I’m respected.”

Still waiting.

And then… more honestly,

“I’m tired.”

 She nods.

Not in judgment.

In recognition.

“You put achievement at the top,” she says.
“And rest at the bottom.”

You feel that in your body.

When your children grew up…
When your career shifted…
When the role that defined you began to loosen…

It didn’t just feel inconvenient.

It felt destabilizing.

Because when the identity you built your worth on changes…
Your inner structure trembles.

She walks toward the window.

“Do you remember who you wanted to become?”

You close your eyes.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Kind,” you whisper.
“Creative.”
“Peaceful.”

She turns back toward you.

“You thought that meant achieving more.”

And something soft opens in your chest.

Because the version of you that longed for peace
was never asking for more performance.

She was asking for more truth.

You reach for her hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.
“I thought protecting us meant reshaping us.”

She squeezes your fingers.

“You did what you knew.”

Tears rise.

Not because you failed.

But because you survived
by adapting.

You became who the world rewarded.

But you do not have to abandon that woman.

You simply don’t have to let her run everything anymore.

Take a slow breath.

What would it look like
to value yourself
even when you are not producing?

What would it feel like
to rest without guilt?

To create…
without applause?

Your self-concept does not need demolition.

It needs expansion.

Achievement can stay.

But it is no longer the gatekeeper of worth.

Softness can rise.

Creativity can return.

Rest can move closer to the center.

The room grows quiet.

“Will you stay?” you ask.

She smiles gently.

“I never left.”

Befriending yourself
is not about becoming someone new.

It is about welcoming home
the parts of you
that adapted for survival…

and gently asking
whether they still need to lead.

Tonight, ask yourself:

What did I trade for approval?

Where did I silence softness?

What part of me
is ready to come home?

Your self-concept is not fixed.

It is living.

And you are allowed…
to update it…
with compassion.

If something inside you whispered,
“Yes… this is me…”

I want you to know — the Self-Care Café was created for women exactly like you.

Women in transition.
Women quietly redefining themselves.
Women ready to value who they are… not just what they do.

Right now, we’re welcoming Founding Members — the women who will help shape the heart of this community from the very beginning.

If you feel called…
Come join us.

We’re saving you a seat at the table.