I stopped bringing flowers to the grave of someone I no longer recognise.
“things people don’t tell you…” — MOURNING YOUR YOUNGER SELF (Episode Two)
When I told my therapist about the letters, the notes I’d saved on my phone for my future self, I think she understood the weight of them before I did.
“How did those letters make you feel?” She asked
“Sad” I smiled weakly
I knew what she wanted me to admit — that what I went through was far from normal for a fourteen-year-old. She wanted me to acknowledge that it wasn’t okay, that the absence of love and warmth during those years left a void I spent my adolescence trying to fill. She wanted me to admit that no one should have to learn self-care in survival terms, to crave safety in a house that felt nothing like home.
Fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t have to learn to be their own safety nets. They shouldn’t be the ones doing laundry, grocery shopping, or cooking alone. They shouldn’t walk into empty houses and face silence each day after school. They shouldn’t have to check their parents’ room after a nightmare, hoping to find a comforting presence, only to see an empty bed that looked like it hadn’t been slept in. But this was my reality.
“It was, unfair” I say truthfully
It wasn’t fair that my family’s circumstances made warmth and connection seem like luxuries rather than everyday things. There was a silence in that house that felt as heavy as loneliness itself. I remember every detail of it — bare walls, unpacked boxes, no family photos, no plants or signs of life. The house had a feeling of being temporarily occupied, as though no one intended to stay long enough to make it a home. The only signs of life were the sounds I made, and somehow, even those felt muted.
“I felt alone, scared” I say tearing up
The truth is, it would have been easier to resent my parents if they were unkind, if they had been neglectful. But my mother was, and still is, my best friend. She loved me fiercely, and if the world had allowed her to stay, she would have done so without hesitation. I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t blame her for what wasn’t her fault. That knowledge kept me from resenting her, but it didn’t make the ache any easier to bear.
I look back at that younger version of myself, a person who ultimately didn’t survive the solitude and confusion. They didn’t die in any obvious, physical way, but the version of me who once felt hope and a sense of belonging faded, leaving me hollow, carrying only the echoes of their silent despair. Depression crept in like a thief in the night, claiming that part of me, leaving a darker, more fractured version in their wake.
Because my pain wasn’t visible like a broken bone or a wound, it felt like no one believed it was there. I began to feel I needed proof, some kind of sign that what I felt was real. I wanted people to see what lived inside of me, to recognise it even if they didn’t understand it. I would cry without taking off my makeup, watching black eyeliner streak down my face as if those lines could reveal the pain hiding beneath my skin. I needed those dark marks, that visible evidence, to make it real even to myself. Sometimes, I went so far as to injure myself, seeking a physical manifestation of my anguish, a way to silence the constant doubts that whispered, “It is all in your head.”
Looking back, I see how desperate I was for someone to look beyond the surface, to see the younger me who was grieving her own death in silence, who cried out through bruises, streaks of eyeliner, and pain she had no words for.
Mourning my younger self has taught me that healing doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means allowing that part of me to rest, to finally let go of what I used to carry alone. And maybe, in doing so, I can begin to plant flowers again — not on the grave of a lost child, but in the life of the person they grew into, who finally recognizes the depth of their own resilience.
