Dear Me,
the one with trembling hands
and a heart that cracked like old porcelain,

I remember you.
How you stood in the silence,
shoulders full of thunder
and no one ever heard the storm.

You thought surviving was shameful
as if breathing through the wreckage
wasn't a kind of bravery.
You wore your pain
like it was your fault
instead of your badge.

But let me tell you what I know now:
you were never weak for breaking.
You were strong
for not staying shattered.

I saw how you buried your cries
in late-night ceilings
and learned to smile
with a mouth full of splinters.
That wasn’t failure
that was endurance.

I wish I could’ve held your hand then.
Not to fix you—
you weren’t broken beyond repair.
Just to remind you:
even dim stars still shine,
and every breath you took
was proof of a future forming.

Look at us now.
We are softer,
but never smaller.
We are whole—
not because we never fell apart,
but because we stitched the pieces
with patience,
and wore the scars like art.

Thank you
for not letting go.
Thank you
for being the roots
when everything else was wind.

With love,
—The You Who Made It