If she can only read, I hope this reaches her.

By Vixenia Journals

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If she can only read, I hope this reaches her.

When I was younger, all I ever dreamed of was to be older—to be taller, stronger, and braver. All I wanted was to do the things adults were allowed to do, to be taken seriously, and to make choices that were mine alone. I yearned for freedom, for nights without curfews, for a life where I could do whatever I wanted without needing anyone’s permission. Adulthood, to me, was a glittering promise—a perfect, boundless world just waiting for me to grow into it.

But as I look back on my youth, I realize I grew up too young. Not just quickly, but recklessly. I rushed myself to be “mature,” thinking that growing older was a destination I needed to reach as soon as possible.

Being exposed to the digital world didn’t help. Social media, which I thought was a mirror reflecting life beyond the four walls of my room, was in truth a kaleidoscope—beautiful but distorted, hypnotic but misleading. I stared too long, entranced by its colors, not realizing that the images it showed me weren’t real, just fragments of someone else’s curated and filtered reality.

I gave up my youth too soon, trading carefree days for curated images and comparisons I didn’t even know I was making. I was exposed to a world that told me how to look and how to act – even before I knew who I really am. I was instructed how to succeed— even before I knew the meaning of success. Instead of growing up, I was molding myself into what I thought the world expected of me – especially as a young woman.

As a growing teenager who grew up surrounded by beauty standards, I became my biggest bully. I was so hard on myself. The world told me what beauty should look like—flawless skin, perfect hair, a body that fit into impossible molds—and I believed it. I absorbed every image, every comment, every unspoken rule about what it meant to be "enough."

I compared myself to strangers on screens, their carefully polished lives making my own feel small and inadequate. My inner voice, the one that should have been my comfort, became my harshest critic. I let the harshest words possible echo in my mind until I believed them, until they became my truths I carried with me every day.

Mindlessly scrolling through everyone else’s perfectly curated feeds, I skipped over parts of myself – parts I should have recognized to begin with.

Now, as I grow older, I’m learning to rewrite them. As I take charge of my own narrative, I’m learning to recognize the beauty of drafting – which is something I should have seen earlier as a writer.

I should have known better – that in writing, there is no perfect draft. You just write whatever is in your mind, not thinking about the grammatical errors you leave as you go because you can always correct these before publishing. You know you can always revise later. Or even better – you don’t revise them.  Sometimes, the imperfections are what make the work authentic. Maybe that’s what my younger self needed—not polished perfection, but permission to stumble, to fail, to see mistakes as lessons, and not flaws.

As I conquer 21, I vow to be wiser, stronger, and kinder to her—to the girl I used to be. If she can only read, I hope this piece reaches her. I hope she can feel the regret I hold for how I treated her. I hope she knows how deeply sorry I am for being her harshest judge when she deserved a support system.

It is about time I stop using my phone as my mirror when I have a clearer one at home. It is about time I stop fixating on my imperfections as I stare at myself. Instead, I vow to see her—the younger me. Every time my eyes wander to the flaws I once despised, I will force myself to look into her eyes instead—eyes that were once wide with hope, untouched by hatred or doubt.

To her, I make this promise: I will carry you forward with love. I will honor the parts of you that survived my harshest words. And I will celebrate the woman you’ve become, flaws and all. I vow to be proud of you always, and in the words of your dearest friend, even the versions you struggle to accept.