Letters To My Younger Self by For Women Who Roar

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor's Note Alliyah Greaver Be Shakti Chante Owens Alicia Drier Anastasiya Sukhenko Ashley Caron Bryana Saldana Autumn Oldaker Beth Curran Brianna Schullo

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McKenna Neville Katie Bowers Rachael Brooks Nizie Lokman Naomi Karsudjono Leanne Talavera Olivia Delgado

Carmen Mosquera Dreen Lucky Bianca Singlestad Emerald Kirk Kaity Johnson Emma Knighton Katie Burgess Kira Stallworth Kristen Dalli Lia Nizen Maryjean Zajac

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Edited and curated by Megan Febuary and Montse Carty

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Grace Song Rachael Chatham Rashmila Maiti Rose Baseil Massa Sadika Ganguli Jaylee Hamidi Elyse Johnson Eunice Kim

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Marla Mason Sarah Williamson Michelle Robertson Sahar Fathi Stacey Hohman McClain Stephanie Kemp Sterling Wilmer Vania Vent Talia Bina Taylor Kamnetz Gesii Bleu Meet the Authors

Fran Westwood Lisa Johnson Sarah Bennett Martha McNeely MG Hughes

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Edited and curated by Megan Febuary and Montse Carty

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EDITOR’S NOTE Dear eleven year old Megan, This collection is in dedication to you. You were fierce at eleven and you are fierce almost thirty years later. You think you are alone and feel like no one understands you. I want you to know that you make it. That you grow into a beautiful and bold woman that claims her voice without apology and helps women heal their own. You are warrior. You don’t give up, even though some days you feel like you might. I want you to know the words, trauma, and events you experience will not break you, rather they will make into the roaring woman you are today. I love this picture of you so much, because it captures you in your element. Nose deep in a dictionary, underlining words you liked the sound of, so you could plug them poems and stories you would write. You are strange, but in the best freaking way! I love your sassy face that knows what she wants and fights for truth even if it hurts. You are a rockstar and I love you for teaching me to be the woman I am today. xo, Sunflower *This collection was so moving to curate. Thank you women for sharing your words with me. I have no doubt the little girl in you is so proud of you are and who you’re becoming. Your words spoke to me and I know will speak to so many others. Thank you for being brave and l listening to the voice of little you. She appreciates you creating space to hear her. Keep roaring, Megan

By. Alliyah Greaver My Hope for You is Infinite I hope you learn to breathe easy I hope the worry settles out of the places you hide it in I hope when you feel your wings are strong You have the courage to stretch, to leap To fly out of this nest you've been waiting in I hope you find the sun warm on your skin And the sand soft on your feet I hope one day you are brave enough To make wishes on shooting stars And dandelion feathers, and flower petals I hope you discover the world can be kind That you stake out a place to call home And take off your coat planning to stay awhile I hope one day your joys outweigh all the fears That seem heavy hanging on your shoulders But if you're always this way If the anxious thoughts are always there And breathing is tough, and dreaming uneasy If even the sky and the stars seem unreliable I hope you know I'll still be here.

by. Be Shakti Dear Woodsy Baby, I know you wish you had left a letter and tucked it into Chris’s pocket. I know you wish equally that you hadn’t touched his leg side. You felt the hard, crunchy cotton wool stuffing jammed inside his body cavity and it reminded you of the cheap carnival stuffed animals you just had to win, but ultimately ended up discarding anyway. You are learning the hardest lesson early, young. Maybe too young. You lost your brother. And you will lose everything you love. Let this sweet, young corpse cut open your chest cavity. Stay soft. Your heart breaks to open. Love, always and forever, Woodsy Baby/Bug/Bethany/Be/Wild Heart

by Chante Owens This Skin You want so badly to fall in love. This will happen more than once, and each time it will be with a white guy. This doesn’t seem odd to you now. You think you’ve just got a thing for white boys, and that’s all. But really you’ve got a thing for whiteness , the status it affords and the blackness it dilutes. Please, for God’s sake, go befriend someone who is the same color as you. Invest in relationships, romantic and otherwise, with people who aren’t white.

I can smell the burning hair from here and it’s been 15 years. I know where to find you—the source of that scorched scent— filling the bathroom with smoke and the sink with broken, tattered hairs. I can see you there, in the hazy reflection of the mirror, your skin ripe with acne, and your brow furrowed as you steady the jaws of two 450-degree ceramic plates. You’re just a teenager. You think this whole business of flat ironing your hair is about looking pretty. Your thoughts are spent on boys and popularity, and not yet on racial identity, or the way you’ve been socialized, or how curious it is that all your friends and crushes are white. You think having brown skin is a real inconvenience.

Teachers tell you you have a knack for writing, and you modestly accept their praise. You think you could be a writer one day, and I say you are one now. You’ve got notebooks full of short stories, but they all have white protagonists. Eventually a brown person will make it onto the page, and that person will be you, and this will be the most interesting story. You’ll have days where writing will feel difficult and lonely, but I urge you to keep going. Every story is taking you closer to your own, and the practice of putting words on paper is changing your life even now.

In 12 years, you’ll be able to say “back then,” and things will be much clearer. Things that seem harmless to you now will make your stomach turn. In another three years, you’ll be sitting where I am, in a spacious living room with the silver light of morning at your back, typing this message to the girl of our youth: you. Sweet, impassioned, amenable you—there are a few things I wish to say.

From where you are, the days feel long and infinite, elongating lazily like amorphous shadows, one swallowing the next. This feeling won’t last. Sometime after 29, you will grow increasingly aware of the number of days left in life, of the aging planet and how much of it you’re able to roam, of the lines that etch themselves further into the tops of your hands. You will wish that you were kinder to yourself—kinder to your skin—when you were young.

Your hair will always be curly. Your options are to continue waging war against your curls with flat irons, relaxers, and expensive treatments, or to just accept this as fact, allow your hair to exist in its natural state, and move on to more interesting matters.

Don’t wait for 29. By then, things are not easily undone. Start where you are now, right there in that smoky bathroom with your half-flattened hair. Put down the straightener and look at your reflection in the mirror. I don’t care how awkward or stupid it feels, just think of one nice thing to say about your skin and say it out loud. Do this every day. It’s a small gesture that will grow more powerful each time. Eventually, it will take hold. I promise. C.

By now your body knows the feeling of a Nevada summer— the way the sun bakes into your bones. You try to be strategic about your time in direct sunlight, tip-toeing in and out of the shade so you don’t get too dark. You tell your friends the heat has gotten to you. One day you’ll move away from the desert and mountains to a foggy, concrete city where you’ll mostly stare at screens inside cold buildings—you’ll wish you were back on those sagebrush-studded plains. You’ll miss the fever of summer radiating off your skin. You’ll miss the sun lighting you up from the inside.

Dear Alicia (age 10), You used to think vampires lived in the walls of the middle school hallway bathroom. The women's room was right across from your dad's classroom, and you were always certain that if you weren't careful enough - ready to run as soon as the toilet flushed - you were definitely going to get eaten by those wall-monsters. I suppose it's always been easier for you to hide behind stories than to face the mundane truth. Dwarves must have come and stolen the toys you misplaced while you were a child. Your hair was made curlier from ingesting more too much macaroni and cheese. Your first family pet was a wookiee, in place of the everyday dog your parents adopted before you were born. By the time you will reach high school, your game will be much more grounded in the lives of others than in the admittance of your own loneliness. Becky, who will self-harm instead of telling her parents that she never learned how to really feel anything. Shana, who will be afraid to believe she is beautiful because of how it redefines men's eyes in her life. Aaron, who will be too lost in the darkness of his own adolescent revolution to realize you are in love with him. And what if I could go back and visit you as you once were? Would you lift your nose out of the fiction where you choose to hide every day? Or would you fold yourself deeper into your preferred pages? What part of my (I might say “our” instead since she’s talking to the younger version of herself and not someone else) life would you turn into a fairy tale instead of the truth? I could tell you of the darkness first. Of the cousin who died from an accidental bullet to the head. Of the decade long friendship - turned romance that I had to hide, instead of to avoid breaking our mother's heart. Of the edge of a subway platform where I stood and wondered what it would really feel like to fall… I’d save the hope for last. The soul-pieces I’ve left along the the sideroads of London and Chicago and Rome. The words I’ve picked up to set each disparate bone back into place. The weight of my lover’s arms around me every night as I sleep. I want to still believe in your daydreams sometimes. Maybe I can be that visitor from the future you always hoped you’d meet someday. But without a time machine or honest means of linear travel, all I can really offer you is this promise... ...I’ll still get you a happily ever after. Love, Alicia (age 30)

by. Anastasiya Sukhenko Dear Little Ana, There is so much I could tell you. I could give you a play-by-play of exactly what you're going to experience—prepare you for what is to come. But that wouldn't help you. Not truly. You need to experience everything, unaware of what will happen, to understand who you are. You need to process and handle it the way you will—even when you feel lost—because it will only benefit you. It sounds strange, but everything will shape you and you will be so grateful for it one day. You will find who you are. But what I will tell you is to trust and be kind to yourself. Trust that you will find a way to navigate through life, even if you're not sure what to do or how things will turn out. You are stronger and smarter than you give yourself credit for, which is why you need to be kind to yourself. You try so hard—at everything— and even if no one knows it, you do. So, be kind, just as you are to others. You might not see the changes immediately, but they are there. One day, you will see all that effort to better yourself paid off. So, believe in your abilities. Believe in yourself. You can accomplish what you set out to do. I promise. Love, Ana

by. Ashley Caron Dear Beloved One, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the tears you’ve already cried And I’m sorry for the ones you haven’t cried yet. I’m sorry for the violence in your life The violence caused by parents and grandparents Who didn’t know any better The violence caused by selfish men Who didn’t care about how their wandering hands Would impact your life and your future The violence caused by ex-lovers Who felt the only way they could keep you Was to forcefully take what they wanted I’m sorry for all of this and so much more And I know you’re afraid. I know you’re confused about the world and your place in it I know you’re uncertain about your future But you can only begin to heal By looking at the darkness of your past By holding space for the pain of your present By slowly leaning into the fear and uncertainty of your future. And as you do As you begin to heal the wounds that never should have been inflicted As you release the shame that was never yours to carry As you free yourself from the smothering shackles of your past You’ll begin to hear a soft yearning in your heart A soft yearning of life calling you to play with it It’s calling you to laugh and cry and dance and love.

Your life will not always be easy, it will not always be perfect It will sometimes be hard and painful and messy You’ll fall to your knees. You’ll cry. You’ll bleed. You’ll beg for death. But Grace will step in And she’ll remind you that you’re not alone in this She’ll remind you that you’re stronger than you feel right now She’ll remind you that you have more courage than you know right now She’ll remind you that you’re allowed to feel brave and afraid at the same time And she’ll let you know that when you feel stuck in this place This place between courage and fear That there are people in your life who can help you. And with time Slowly Uncertainly Holding hands with fear You’ll put the fragmented pieces of your life together. It will never be perfect But it will be yours And it will be beautiful So lean in my love And trust that in time all will be revealed to you. You’ll cry and fall to your knees again and again and again But this time not because of pain not because of heartbreak not because of suffering This time because of grace because of gratitude because of love.

by. Bryana Saldana Dear 12 year old me, I’m sorry you could not love yourself deep enough to make the scars disappear I’m sorry you allowed people inside of you without an introduction I’m sorry you had to throw away blood stained sheets and everything you were before that day I’m sorry you hated your mother for loving others I’m sorry trepidation blocked the light within your soul I’m sorry, sorry is all I have for you I’m saying sorry as if I could wish that pain out of you Don’t leave any unlocked doors You wouldn’t spend forever on the run On the run from warm love that could have filled your cold heart Always looking behind to make sure no knives made a place for themselves in you 23 now and trying to let go of that 12 year old soul.

by. Autumn Oldaker Dear Younger Autumn, It’s okay to like girls even though your Pastor says it’s a sin. How could you not like them? Their hair smells like lilacs and their skin feels like a rabbit’s fur. Your first kiss will be with a girl while the Pastor preaches; you will sneak off and hide behind the bleachers. Her lips will touch your braces and your bottom lip. She makes you feel like undercooked chicken as she runs from you. Do not turn away from women because of what anyone says; you love who you want to love whether it be a man or a woman. When your sister takes you to the store and offers to buy you a thong, don't wear it. Boys may like it, but it causes you to have urinary tract infections and and yeast infections. You should wear cotton underwear because a healthy vagina is better than a thong up your ass. Boys wear boxers with holes scattered around them like a meerkat burrow, so you wear that underwear like you are on the catwalk. Your period will be like Pompeii. The cramps are bruises. It makes you sick like the flu on steroids. The doctors diagnose you with Endometriosis and you feel nails clawing in your vagina. The doctors won't let you have surgery till you are twenty-five because “you might want kids.” Men will throw you around like a dog with a ball in its mouth. Women will break you like the glass snowman you knocked over when you were five. You can't put the ball or the snowman back together or the snowman. You fix the pieces with glue and throw trash away like the man who kicked you around. Your relationship with your mom is an icy mountain, but you have a mom. She drives you to school, your job when you do not have a car. She holds your hair back when you're throwing up chunks of lasagna. You will see your mom’s best friend lay in a casket and be put into the ground. All those fights with your mom become short like an intermission at a play. High school classmates die in car crashes. Sometimes you think that could be me. Babies like your nephew are born. One way you describe happiness is by holding your nephew for the first time. Don't give up when you remember how the bruises feel because your nephew is waiting for you to hold him. Sincerely, Your Older Self

by Beth Curran Hey, you. I know the scars that keep ripping open and not allowing even shallow graves to exist. Name them. All of them. Go down the street to the beach where you go crabbing and stuff shells in your pockets, and race to the end of that jetty to see the lights of the bridge turn on right as dusk falls. That place. Go there. Alone. Scream. Fists in the air, scream. You are a beautiful little girl betrayed by so many people. But you survived. You are surviving today. You made it out of that tunnel that you thought was blocked at both ends. The one filled with refuse of other people’s empty souls. No one can take that spirit from you, brave girl. No one. After you scream, and the seagulls applaud your audacity, scream some more. Break some glass bottles. The kind that will turn into beautiful sea glass in due time. And it will take time. But those rough edges will smooth out, and you will be able to hold all of those pieces of yourself you thought were lost. You are bigger than this and have bigger things to do in this life. I see you, your green eyes paralyzed in fear, stained with salt from another night of pain. Your freckles sparkle on your cheeks and your brown hair blows in the wind. No, your freckles do not mar your beauty. I know that short hair is not you at all. But you will let it grow out. Just give it time. The big rock on the beach? It’s still there. Go to it now. Climb the smooth side, the one your feet naturally navigate. Look out to the ocean, and know that I am here with you, too. I know what lies beneath. So much beauty. As you look out to the bay where you learned to swim, don’t fear the crab grass beneath. The times you treaded water for hours trying not to touch the bottom—touch it now. Go out past the shallow end. Trust me. The view away from the shore will show you that there is more. You will become more than you ever know. You will leave behind what needs to be left behind. You will come back here years later and find solace. The rocking row boats, the blue and gray skyline, the mist of a foggy morning - will roll over you. And you will know that this place...this beach... this breath is in you and keeps you whole. No one can take your soul, your spirit, your wild essence. Just be you. Know that you are enough. Know that you are never alone. Every night the stars come out. You may not see them, but they are there. Always.

by. Briana Schullo Playground Body It was a back and forth, but it started with them. It’s not easy to pinpoint when I started my ride on this seesaw of body dysmorphia, self-hatred, and insecurity. Many memories have been repressed, a response to the trauma, and eventually, it all fumbles together into a pile that I stare at. I couldn’t look away for the longest time. I don’t think those piles will ever completely disappear, but they haven’t been mine to hold. My body has been called fat since I was in elementary school. If I had to guess, my brothers were the first to spew it at me, but who’s to say. Maybe it was the new girl across the street that came over for a play date and asked, “Can I call you fat?” It could have also been my grandma who insisted I strap down my growing breasts when I was nine. Or perhaps it was my friend in fifth grade who suggested I join Weight Watchers while we were dancing in her basement. It also could have been the teammate on my softball team who punched my stomach and said I resembled the fluffy white baked goods mascot. Or maybe it was my dad who would subtly ask me to be his gym buddy while I was in middle school. You know what, it also could have been my mom who told me I was eating too many carbs and naturally big-boned when I gained twenty-five pounds in college. It’s too complicated for my mind to see the timeline of my body, but who cares because I see it all right in front of the mirror. There was that side of the seesaw. Then I could lean back and see the pile on the other side. For just as long as I’ve been called fat, I’ve been called pretty. As I was taught, those two beings couldn’t coexist. You were either one or the other. And so when I was called pretty by two girls in my class in middle school, I didn’t understand. And when my relatives greeted me with a “Hello, beautiful,” I told myself it was in their family contract to say it. And when boys asked me out in high school and complimented my appearance, I reminded myself that people could always be lying. And in college, when guys would booty call me, I would grow repulsed that someone would want me like that. And when strangers have approached me with a line like, “I don’t want this to sound weird, but you’re very pretty” I imagine they were checking off their good deed of the day. It never has anything to do with me because I was taught that first and foremost, I am fat. And fat is always wrong and undesirable, and so my body is wrong and unwanted. I’ve stared at this other pile for just as long as the other, and it hasn’t made me feel better. Because going back on and forth on a seesaw would make anyone sick. I am not to blame for this.

To unlearn and learn at the same time is another game I’ve learned to play. With the help of Prozac, my therapist, and a push for vulnerability with friends, I am picking up the new game. I have unlearned that being fat is wrong. I have unlearned that being fat is ugly. I have unlearned that stretch marks are hideous. I have unlearned that my weight determines my health. I have unlearned that I am undesirable. I have unlearned that I am unworthy of love. I have unlearned that food is either punishment or reward. I have unlearned that exercise is hell. I have unlearned that taking care of your body is for others. I have unlearned that I deserved it. Every day I am shedding the lies, trauma, and ache I’ve stared at for most of my twenty-two-year-old life. I learned that everybody has fat, fat is healthy, and fat is beautiful. I learned that when I weighed more, I was beautiful. I learned that my stretch marks are nothing more than skin stretching. I learned that I am healthy and my weight is just a number. I learned that I am desirable, beautiful, and sexy. I learned that I am worthy of love, and my body is worthy of love. I learned that food is fuel, cooking is fun, and there is no guilt in eating. I learned that the physical strength I gain from exercise is mental strength, too, and my mood is always better after a workout. I learned to take care of my body for myself because I know how to take care of my body best. I learned that I never deserved to go through what I have, but I am who I am because of it. I learned that I love her. I am no longer staring at the piles of my past because I’ve grown from that. I am far away from them. They’re specs on my horizon. I know that they’re there, and they might grow bigger on certain days, but that’s okay. They are shrinking as my love for my body shines. My sweet body, The world has not been kind to you, and I learned to be unkind to you too. I no longer want to do that. Every day I choose to show you love, care, appreciation, and kindness. I’m sorry for the times I listened to them, but now I know that you were never the enemy. You are my friend. Thank you.

by Carmen Mosquera Of all the things you need to know Stop. Breath. Listen to me. This pain, this agony, this emptiness. This isn’t your fault, you aren’t the problem. I know all you want is to feel loved, protected, guided. You need to know, you are so much stronger than the ones who should be strong for you. You need to know, one day you will be the mother you crave to have as your own. You need to know, your children will never feel the sting of abandonment, that betrayal. You need to know, despite the rough road ahead, it’s tough don’t get me wrong, you will still come out on top. You need to know, this won’t break you, your heart will always remain full of love. Love yourself the way you need to be loved, and know you will find true love with your children, your husband and friends. Stop. Breath. Listen to my words. Of all the things you need to know, you are enough!

by Dreen Lucky Oh Man; The things I would have told myself – If only I would have listened Most of my life could be explained: “Well, that didn’t turn out as planned”. I used to think I was cursed. Often, I questioned what was wrong with me. Why, oh God why? That was my mantra from about age 15 to a few months ago. I saw patterns in my life but couldn’t see how utterly dependent I was on them. I couldn’t see how to change the patterns. I could only vaguely see patterns and only when it was extreme. This brings me to my first piece of advice (I would have dismissed in my youth). The voices in your head either motivate you or disintegrate you. Listen to them and discover your truth. The internal voice told you you’re not good enough? If you believe it, it becomes true. If you study it and learn where it came from, it loses its power. Here is the scariest part though. Often, if you analyze that voice, you discover people who you trusted did you wrong. It opens a door to reliving hurt. Most of the time, this sucks! Now, the most important piece of advice I couldn’t have listened to in my youth. We learn more in fear and failure than we learn in success. No one ever dropped to their knees and screamed “Why?” while enjoying life. No one sought a better life and cleared up their issues while happy with what they have. People change because holding on hurts more than letting go. We change because it hurts, and we want to avoid hurt. When the result hurts, we aim to get a different result. Recovery doesn’t just happen though. Unfortunately, we get comfortable in dysfunction and if improvement doesn’t net immediate results – it is easy to give up on that too. It is a cycle. This leads me to the only advice I took: Break the cycle. Live out of your comfort zone. Live the life YOU WANT, not the life you were given. Don’t let those voices dictate your success. YOU were given this life and if you let negative life influences run it, then are you even living it? It will be hard. It will take time. It will require you to be patient with yourself. But it will be worth it.

by Bianca Singlestad Experience Has Told Me I am not old, at all But still old enough to know That I’ve been a burden And my heart has led me astray. Listen to my voice Through that old MP3 And tell me if you understand Will you follow what I’ve said? Experience has told me That you will date a boy Who is not right for you. Experience has told me That you’ve been in a yelling match Or two. Experience has told me That you’ve pushed people away And locked yourself in away. Experience has told me That from all of that You grew. If I only knew What I do today I would not be who I am now. Maybe smarter And with a less shameful history But these lessons I share Would not have been mine to give.

by. Emerald Kirk It’s Okay to be Gay Let’s have a seat. We need to talk. And before you go and tell me to fuck off like you normally do because “you don’t trust adults,” just hear me out. This is important. This is something you need to hear because no one in your life has told you this yet: It’s okay to be gay. There I said it! I know it’s shocking to hear this because being Filipino and Catholic, everywhere you went, you were told being gay is wrong, being gay is a sin, and that God hates gays. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Those same Christians who preach kindness, compassion, and love thy neighbor, are probably the same ones who would disown or even beat their child for being gay or a lesbian. It’s okay and completely normal to be gay. I’m telling you this because as soon as you realize who you are, you’ll finally be happy and at peace. I want you to be happy, and the only way you can do that is by being yourself. Stop pretending to be something that you’re not. Stop trying to go out with guys, when you just hate it. When every date you went on with a guy made you feel like something was wrong. When every kiss with a man made you want to gag from their breath that reeks of beer, popcorn, or smoke, when their bodies stink of sweat, body odor, and Axe. When every time you slept with a man, you felt sick and disgusted. Who are you trying to convince when you go off and sleep with those guys? Stop lying to yourself. You know you don’t enjoy it! You know you hate being touched by men! You know how bad it hurt because you couldn’t get wet! You know you had to drink just to have sex with them, and even then, you faked it despite how much it hurt. Your attraction to women is normal and natural. Do you remember your girl crushes? Hope Solo and Ashlyn Harris from the US Women’s Soccer Team, and Thais Picarte from the Brazilian Women’s Soccer Team? Do you remember dad asking you, “Why do you like them so much? They’re just goalkeepers!” But they weren’t “just goalkeepers” were they? You wished you could meet a girl as talented and beautiful as Hope Solo and Thais Picarte. In the back of your mind, you were jealous of Ali Krieger for always being with Ashlyn Harris. According to your diary, you wanted a girlfriend as charming and funny as Ashlyn Harris, decked out with tattoos, who “can sweep you off your feet.” You know the saying, “it gets better?” I know you’re tired of hearing it. As you sob into your pillow, I know it’s hard to believe it, but it is true. It does get better. Yes, you will have your ups and downs. You will fail out of your first university, but your second university is your home. You’ll fall in love and get your heart broken, but just keep going because you’ll find that person who loves you. You’re going to travel. You’re going to see London, Rio, and Buenos Aires. You’re going to write A LOT too, because you’re not just gay, you’re a writer, and you’re going to meet other writers and poets, some of which whom are gay and lesbian. You’ll have many friends too, and they will love you and accept you for who you are. In your dark brown eyes, I can see the confusion and pain of a sad and lonely girl. Vulnerable, shy, scared, misunderstood, lost, full of regrets, and made to feel ashamed of who she is. You hide all this under a guise of toughness and anger, when deep down you’re really sensitive and sweet. People like you because you’re sweet and kind, not because you’re “a badass,” like you pretend to be. I want to give you a hug and tell you how much I love you because I know that’s what you—we—need the most.

by Kaity Johnson Katie, You know that feeling you’ve always had that you’re a bit different than everyone else? It’s called autism, love. The way your brain needs extra time to process information? Autism. The way your body overstimulates when things get particularly stressful, and you have to hold yourself tightly in a ball and rock to calm back down again? Autism. It’s okay that you don’t know what autism is right now, so please don’t spend an ounce of energy being hard on yourself. There’s next to no representation of autistic people that you could possibly access from that small South Carolina house, and the chances of you seeing what an autistic girl looks like — even less likely. She isn’t born yet, but one day a girl named Greta Thunberg will help change that when she shows the world not only what autistic girls look and act like, but what they are capable of accomplishing when given room to dig all the way into “their thing”. You’ll actually see Greta in person one day at a protest for climate justice with your daughter, Berkeley, who is also autistic. You won’t find out you’re autistic until after you learn that Berkeley is. There are a lot of women your age who will go through the exact same thing — realize they’re autistic only after their child is diagnosed. The stories these women share will help give you that sense of understanding and belonging that you so badly want right now. There’s a place where you fit, love, and I promise you’ll find it. Through understanding that you’re autistic, and from being a parent to Berkeley and to your younger daughter, Abilene, you'll also be able to piece together other parts of your childhood that are causing you a great deal of pain right now. I know you can’t really put into words what’s happening, but you feel it. One day the words will come.

Along with “autistic”, two other phrases you’ll eventually come to understand are “physical abuse” (what they call “spanking”) and “emotional abuse”. You’ll learn that, although abuse can happen to anyone, it happens more often to girls than boys, and more often to people with disabilities (like you) than to those without. You’ll learn that it’s not your fault you were abused. While you never have been, nor ever will be a perfect person by any means, there is nothing you could ever do that would justify you being abused. That’s true for everyone. It’s never okay. This will all start to make a lot more sense when you become a parent of your own. You’ll see first-hand how much power parents have over their children within the privacy of a home’s walls. You’ll see first hand how much work it is to consistently wield that power with the greatest of care — and how challenging it can be at times to not let your frustration get the best of you while performing what is one of the most high-stress jobs there is. You won’t be a perfect mother, just like you won’t ever be a perfect human being — but you will also not be an abusive mother, and that is not nothing. You will make better choices than your mom and her parents did, and through these conscious, kind choices you will break a cycle of generational abuse. No one will know you’re doing this. You’ll do it anyway. And one day, you’ll be sitting in your car, watching Berkeley walk into her elementary school with her quirky, wonderful self on full display. The contrast between her confident skips and strides and the way you used to walk into your elementary school as a child will take your breath away. You’ve spent your childhood trying to be small, silent, and invisible because being big, loud, and seen is usually what brings on the abuse. Stepping out of that “normal girl box” is a risk for you. Dangerous, even. But your daughter doesn’t move through her life like that. Your daughter lives big, and loud, and visible, and unafraid because you helped create a world that was safe for her to do just that. You took every ounce of pain you felt from being hurt; from not belonging, and you created a world where your daughter can belong as her whole self. And in the process, love, you created that kind of space for yourself to live in, too. Hold tight, babe. Your people who love you just as you are — they’re coming. One day you’ll even be one of them. And then, once you’ve learned all of these words — autism, abuse — and once you’ve begun to heal the hurt that you’ve always felt, you’ll take what you’ve learned and find ways to help other people do the same thing. And it will matter. It will all matter, babygirl. Just hold tight, okay? You’ll get there. One day, you’ll be okay. Love you dearly, Kaity

by. Emma Knighton Here. Little one Afraid and ravenous For safety. It is safe here This place where I love and I dream and I connect to things that are not guaranteed. Your fear is legitimate Your hunger is satiable Come here Let me run my fingers through your hair It is alright I won’t let anyone hurt you. But what if but what if but what if Yes! It is new and unknown and scary and full of questions It is the space where you became her and she became me and I will become the next her and so on and so on. We blossom here little dear Our roots are sturdy and well intertwined with the earth around us It can shake It can crumble And we still breathe the air and transfigure the toxins into joy Trust me my sweet little questioner I’m so grateful for your reminders We are here Together.

by Kaitie Burgess Dear Katie, I've got a couple of things I want to say, but first I want to tell you that you would be proud. You would be proud of the person I have become, the people I have surrounded myself with, and the life I am creating. I am stronger, healthier, happier, and even at the age of 24, I am discovering new things about myself. There is magic in us. Too often I have felt the sting of heartbreak, swallowed hard truths about love and loss that felt like drinking moonshine on an empty stomach, and cried over those who did not deserve my tears. I'm not going to lie to you, I still have moments of weakness, a lot actually. Moments where I let the wrong one into my heart or said something I should not have said. Yet with each mistake, I learn something new about what I want and how I want it. Every day I am becoming unstoppable. I know that this may seem unlikely to you because it always seems like the world is running you over all the time. I promise that with each day you are moving closer to the reality you always dreamed of. You would be happy to know that we moved out of West Virginia. I know that right now growing up low-income and a budding queer in Appalachia seem like the stains you must remove from your ancestral quilt. However, these identities will someday become a central part of you, not as struggles, but as the very squares that make up your own quilt. Too long have you painted West Virginia as your villain. I think so much bad happened to you and without any single source or explanation as to why you are always the unlucky one. You said: "well West Virginia has to be the reason my life sucks." It wasn't though. In fact, West Virginia was one of the few things holding you together even on your darkest days. I know, one of your dreams growing up was to get the hell out of Appalachia, well I'm here to tell you that I (kind of) did. I found a new home and new community in Ohio and now that I am here, I miss West Virginia. I miss the pepperoni rolls, the folk music, the community, the winding roads up to my home in Ranch Lake and the adventures I had in the woods of my backyard. I have traveled to seven countries, 20 states, and hundreds of little towns and I have yet to find a culture like that of Appalachia.

I recognize, more than ever, that you were too young to grow up when you did. Too young to feel the weight of responsibilities cover your shoulders like a heavy quilt with batting made of mud and moss, damp with your mother’s tears, with sewing thread like sutures barely holding together. The shadows that creep along in the halls of your home yell in your ears, tear at your arms, bite at your ankles. You are reminded every morning that you are a disappointment, painted as the gatekeeper preventing your family from passing into their land of milk and honey. Little did they know you felt as though you were keeping the bridge up as it tried to crumble around your family's feet. Your broad shoulders scarred from splinters of wood. Your hands bloody as the crushed stone pushed into your palms. You think that they do not feel that weight as you do. One thing I've learned in recent years is that your family are your greatest allies and they understand so much more than you think. I urge you to heal with them instead of pushing them away.

When I think about the most important friends I have had in the last decade, each has taught me something very important about who I am as a friend. My high school friends taught me about the dark side of friendship and how it is not simple but a complex, ever-changing relationship. You'll have this to look forward to. My college best buds taught me that I could be my authentic self and that was enough, I didn't need to pretend to be someone I wasn't. My graduate school friends (yes, graduate school) challenged me in all the best ways: they made me think harder; made me be more creative, outgoing; and are the most encouraging group of people I have ever met. Right now, my post-graduation friends are wonderful, forgiving, empathetic, and teaching me all about adult friendships and how pure and wonderful they are. Just keep your head up kid and be yourself, you are electric. Finally, you would be so happy to know that after many years I have started writing again. You might be thinking, how did I ever stop? It was the only thing you ever did for years. Yet for a long time, I stopped writing for numerous reasons: I didn’t have the time, the inspiration, or the desire. Something changed a couple of months ago though, one day I was reminded how much I loved it. I was reminded that writing was the most practical way I have ever found of healing and processing the bad experiences and the best ones too.

Despite the obdurate, grim facade you try to create for yourself you are loving, warm, and loyal. You feel so deeply, but somewhere along the way you learned that showing emotion was a weakness, so instead you just got mad. Anger is so powerful, Katie, but it does not define you. You are not the villain in your narrative. You are the one with eyes that can see through the bullsh*t and a gut more finely tuned than a compass. I have so many memories of being hurt or heartbroken and instead of expressing my sadness I just got tough and hostile. Vulnerability is terrifying, but anger, is even more so. It can be intoxicating and violent. Anger can be good, but do not let your anger devour you. Vulnerability and empathy are also powerful. Crying and feeling things deeply can be liberating. The most important thing I can ever possibly say to you is that your emotions are not a burden and your feelings are valid, Katie. Never forget that.

I know I’ve made a lot of promises and claims in this letter. I know how distrustful and paranoid I used to be, I don’t expect you to believe any of this. You are probably scoffing and rolling your eyes right now. That’s okay, Katie. Just keep pushing, keep having faith, and keep your fire. Your passion is like a volcano, don’t ever let anyone dull that fire, love. Love, Your older self

A constant pain point for you has always been creating and sustaining friendships. You put your whole heart into every friendship and so rarely is it reciprocated. For a while you are going to feel like you are not meant to have positive friendships as they seem to dissipate so quickly around you. I promise, Katie, you are not alone. It takes some people longer than others to find their communities, particular us queer folx. You will have many groups of friends throughout the years. We outgrow people, we find new friends who treat us better, friends who are just as creative and funny as we are. When you finally find your community it's like magic.

by. Kira Stallworth Hey There, Beautiful, Yes, I’m talking to you. The girl that questions her worth every day and is constantly asking herself why she can’t be as pretty as the other girls. Just because you aren’t like those popular girls who get all the guys, go out to parties, steal the social spotlight, and get 200+ likes on every selfie they post, that does not determine your beauty. Society tricks girls into believing that beauty is supposed to uphold a certain standard. If that social construct is not met, girls fall victim to being robbed of their beauty. You were robbed of your beauty because you believe only certain types of girls meet the requirements of being beautiful. Beauty is the social construct that destroys young girls and discourages them from achieving confidence. American beauty standards are not only unrealistic, but are an ugly fabrication. You don’t have to look like a model to be considered beautiful. Real beauty is not destroying your physical health to reach a size zero. Real beauty is not having to be the skinny blonde girl to make heads turn. Real beauty is not the amount of followers you have because it is a false depiction of your worth; don’t fall for this flawed system and false validation. Real beauty is not making your boobs stick out of your shirt, and you shouldn’t feel obligated to show off your butt to feel like you matter. Real beauty is not wearing the tightest and most figure-fitting clothing to be stunning. Most importantly, real beauty is never depleting your worth by comparing yourself to another girl. Real beauty is not forcing yourself to fit a ridiculous mold that society has created. You are you , and that is the most beautiful thing you can be.

Real beauty is being the most genuine version of yourself; there is no beauty in being someone you simply are not. The media is constantly shoving this idea of beauty down your throat on social media, TV, advertisements, movies, and so much more. In a world where there is an unavoidable standard, it can become quite difficult to be a true individual; this makes it seem like beauty is unattainable, which causes girls to give up believing. Although the beauty standard is present, you must disregard it. Society’s version of beauty is worthless when you discover your individual beauty. You are more than a social construct; when you realize that is true, no one can impede on your beauty and newfound confidence. Screw what society has to say—you are beautiful and there is nothing that can change that. Defeating the toxic mindset of beauty being a certain way, is half the battle. Being beautiful is a mindset rather than a comparison to what society forces you to believe. Hold your head up high, flip your luscious hair, show off that gorgeous smile, put power in your strides, and don’t tread lightly; wear confidence on your sleeve. Rock being a true queen, which is every inch of you. Don’t listen to the hate if from others who cannot appreciate your beauty. You appreciate your beauty and value yourself, which is the strongest version of yourself you can be; who would dare to tell you otherwise? If haters have something to say, let your confidence speak volumes to them. Let society know: “your opinion doesn’t matter!” The only opinion that matters is yours. Now, next time someone says “hey there, beautiful,” you won’t be confused or uncertain; you’ll flash that irresistible smile and just know how beautiful you really are. Love, Kira Stallworth

by. Kristen Dalli A Letter to My Younger Self: A Manifesto for the Ages Age Five Why do you want your hair to be blonde so badly? That Barbie that you love so much shouldn’t be your greatest role model. You don’t need to change everything about yourself for people to like you. Your dark brown curly hair that frizzes in all weather, your olive skin that soaks up every last ray of the sun, the tiny gap between your two front teeth that you stare at in the mirror and loathe. All of those things are yours, yours alone, and I wish you wouldn’t spend the next decade and a half wishing they were different. Wishing you were different. Barbies aren’t real. You are real. Age Nine Just because your arms were skinnier at your First Communion and your face was slightly less round than when you were in Kindergarten doesn’t make you any less worthy. You’re no less funny or smart or creative because of what size your Limited Too sweatpants are now. Your friends won’t love you any less. Your friends who are all still wearing the same size that they wore in second grade, only getting taller, never growing anywhere else. You’re supposed to be growing, in all senses of the word. If we all stayed the same – the same size, in the same place, knowing the same things – there would be no progress. You’d be stuck. Be bigger. Be bolder. Take up more space. Demand it, in fact. Ages Twelve-Fourteen (And Forever, Really) Do not chase the boy. Do not make the boy the center of your universe. Better yet, don’t hate the girl that the boy likes, simply because she gets more attention than you. You need girls – they are connection, they are support, they are family. As hard as it may seem to believe right now, there are other boys. There always are. They never go away. Also, don’t laugh at jokes you don’t think are funny. It is not every boy’s God given right to be funny, and most of the time, they’re never as funny as they think they are. But also, don’t be afraid. Boys are just people. People that twirl the ends of your hair around a pen when they sit behind you in class and don’t always wear clothes that match, but still, just people. If you think he’s cute, tell him. If you think he’s funny – actually laugh out loud funny – tell him. If you like him, tell him. Why do you automatically assume you’ll be rejected? And even if you are rejected, he’s one boy. Your identity spans far and wide beyond the scope of his opinion. There’s no way to experience something good – something great – something lifechanging, even – if you stay small. Be risky.

Ages Fifteen-Eighteen You are doing the best that you can. Say that again. And again. And again. Keep saying it until you’re sick of the way the words sound coming out of your mouth. Say it because you need the words, their meaning, maybe as much as you need oxygen. Say it because you have to. Say it because it’s true. You are doing the best that you can. There is no rule book for crippling anxiety that convinces you that you’re dying every waking moment of the day. There is no rule book for parents who choose not to act like parents. There is no rule book for wanting to itch your way out of your skin, your house, your hometown, get as far away from everyone and everything comfortable and familiar. You are doing the best that you can.

Last Year, Next Year, and Every Year Forever You’ve gone to great lengths to be kind, compassionate, and understanding to everyone you come into contact with, and have neglected to show yourself the same courtesy. Even on the days you’re not mean to yourself, you’re not exactly nice, either. Be intentional about being kind. Compliment yourself. Recognize when you’ve accomplished something and allow yourself to feel pride and achievement and success. Give yourself a hug. You deserve it. Nothing you’ve done on this earth warrants the amount of shame and guilt you’ve forced yourself to feel. So quit it! You don’t need it weighing you down.

Find the things that you love. Find the people that you love. Hold them so close, so tight, that you fear they could combust because of how much you love them, and how much support and relief they give you. I know it seems like those things and people only exist for other people – other people who aren’t you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Look harder. Feel harder. You are doing the best that you can.

Let go of control. Or, at the very least, try to. This will take awhile (probably forever), but it will make your muscles less tense and your skin less problematic. Sure, there is a need for a schedule, a routine, some general sense of order to your world. But there is so much more on the other side of all of that – even though your natural inclination is to deny that, it’s true. You’ll accomplish more. You’ll sleep better. You’ll be better. That’s what I’m making you believe, anyway. Some part of you knows that’s true, though, I think.

The College Years Freedom tastes good, but confidence tastes even better. Stop settling. For anything. Bad coffee, a class you hate, people that you hang out with that you just can’t stand, guys – all of the guys. Keep going until you find the greatness. You deserve it. You really fucking deserve it. Stop second guessing – your worth, your decisions, your ideas. All of it is a lesson, even if it feels like the world’s biggest rejection. The potential for something even better still exists.

Have fun. Breathe in fresh air as much as possible. Take mental pictures of the funny way your dog fell asleep on your bed or your best friend’s head thrown back in uncontrollable laughter. Always choose comfy clothes. Know your limits. Know that “no” is a complete sentence. Gut feelings don’t lie. You’ll be okay. Great. Incredible. You are doing the best that you can.

Speak up. Stop cringing at the sound of your voice – internally and externally. Ask for help. Let people know what you need. You are not an island. You have people. People who want to help you, who want to see you succeed, who want to succeed alongside you. That fear, that little voice in the back of your head convincing you to bury it all deep, deep down inside of you, underneath all of the other crap you’ve submerged over the years, is not your friend. You are bigger than that fear. You are bigger than that little voice. No risk has ever crumbled you, and it never will. Know your worth, your potential, and don’t ever let it be quarantined to the recesses of your mind.

by. Lia Nizen We are one in the same, and sorry doesn't feel like enough. A poem for me, for you, and for everyone in between Lately I’ve been stuck between what if, what was, what could be, what could have been, and what will never be And I just want to know what actually is I recognize everyone, yet know no one Some say I’m just losing my mind But I’ve always believed in pushing myself to the edge of sanity and jumping I’ve always made room for the loss Right now, I am playing hide and seek with the person I used to be and the person I could be and I can’t find either of them anywhere I’m stuck in this Stratified solidarity This Unfamiliar familiarity I did not ask for the sorrow of solitude But every night I find myself in its embrace In salient security It is here that I watch the bittersweet chaos that follows my every move I have never been able to tread lightly I guess some people are designed for destruction I’m just waiting for my own combustion Like any problem is probable cause for the count down And all I want to do is write All I have ever wanted to do was make a difference with my words To inspire and encourage those that who are stuck out at sea Searching for happiness while uncomfortable in sadness But I lost myself in the process I put a piece of myself into every poem until there were no pieces left

And now I feel like I don't have a place in poetry Like my voice is foreign in my field I want to write about important things I want to shine a light on the silence But I feel like my light is no more than a flickering flame Like it won't take more than a breeze to put me out And I know that I have braved some of the strongest storms Found wings through the wind Found safety in the sea I know that one day I may find it again But right now I am stuck in the in-between Facing the fire and the flood I don't know whether to stop, drop, and roll or swim towards the first sign of safety All I can do is write my story into existence Because I find pieces of myself in the fragments of my future And this jagged beauty has me drawing lines in the sand It is my own crimson trail that guides my wavering steps It is my own unfinished story that writes my future

by Maryjean Zajac Dear Young MaryJean, You will be a woman one day. That is a fact. Right now you are just a child with your whole life ahead of you. Although you had a strong mother who felt she could do anything she set her mind to, will you feel the same way? She was a single parent when it was not the standard. She knew she had to support herself as well as you. With little education she learned a trade and secured employment. She learned to drive when most women were just passengers. She purchased a home of her own when many women were not even named on the deed. You will see that she was a woman that roared and it will encourage you to do the same. How do I begin to tell you what your life will be like in 40, 50 years from now? It may be challenging at times and you will wonder why. You are a person first, a woman second. The world may not see you that way all the time. You will encounter those who will want to silence your voice. There will come a time, when you are barely 20 years old, you will meet a man who admires your strength and conviction. While he finishes his degree you will support him. He in turn will support you when the time comes. He will encourage you to reach for the stars. He will become your partner, your husband, your equal. Although there are many things you will want to accomplish, the need to be a mother is strong. You will bear two sons with a husband who supports your educational and creative goals. He can see a woman who roars. While you are satisfied with that part of your life you feel there is still more to achieve and you continue striving.

Your sons will grow into fine young men. Men that you are proud of as any mother would be. They marry and start their own families. You become a loving grandmother of three grandsons and two granddaughters. You are their role model. Providing inspiration to your granddaughters and values to your grandsons. They see a woman who roars.

There is something that moves you to seek your own truth, your own life. After having children, you will continue your education as an adult student and find comfort knowing you did it on your own and on your own terms. No one will be prouder of you than your husband. When your sons are still young you are their teacher, teaching them that women are as important in this world as men. You show them that even a woman with children can seek education and creative endeavors. The support of a loving and caring man who always treated you as an equal stands beside you as you roar.

Later in your life it will be a time for reflection and you will see how much you have grown as a person and as a woman. Your sons value your advice and fortitude. They are grateful for what you have shown them. Your grandchildren only see a woman who, while she was loving, it did not diminish her standards. These were the standards set for each of them whether boy or girl. A trait you hope they will inherit.

As time passes you change places and become the breadwinner due to your husband’s failing health. Then one day your husband has to leave this world. It is much too soon for the two of you to be separated and you are alone. Although family surrounds you and gives you love it is difficult at first. Somehow you forge on knowing he gave you skills and the strength to endure even when life becomes tough.

Knowing through it all you have taught each of them simply to see no matter what role a woman chooses in life she can be a woman who roars.

Stay strong during this arduous time. You will go from full-time employment to full-time leisure. You may ponder your preference to this new-found freedom and thoughts linger as to whether it was the right decision. This leads you to seek out new adventures and when least expected another man will come into your life. You convince yourself that you can do it on your own. He knows you can too, yet he sees a woman who is strong and this impresses him. He wants you to stand alone, be strong. He encourages you to seek your creative side and knows you can succeed. He will be there, if needed, only to lean on because he sees your potential as a woman who roars.

by. McKenna Neville Dear 12-year-old Me, It’s been 10 years since we last spoke, and wow, so much has changed. I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned patience, and how to be happy in bad situations, and how to discern who’s good for me, and who’s not. I know you hate yourself right now, which is totally understandable. Everyone around you is telling you to hate yourself. They’re telling you you’re not pretty, you’re awkward, you don’t fit in… I could go on forever. Nevertheless, when these thoughts creep in and all you want to do is cry and isolate yourself – I’m going to give you a list of words I want you to declare over and over and over again. I desire for you to recite these statements so many times that you begin to believe them. I hope for them to be ingrained into every part of who you are. I want you to know them by heart. A list of ways to speak to yourself: You can take up as much space as you need You are worthy of good things You already have the power inside you to keep going You have permission to be whoever you want to be You are aloud allowed to be sad, and mad, and feel whatever you’re feeling

· · · · ·

Be gentle with yourself – there’s so much to come. And I can’t even begin to explain how incredible life will get. Keep going. Love, 22-year-old Me

by. Katie Bowers On Learning to Create (Or A Letter To My Younger Self) There will come a day where you will grip at your abdomen in sorrow, as you see the evidence of your sin everywhere. You'll see it in his green doe-eyes, in his crooked front teeth, in his goofy boyish charm; you'll see it when your breasts have stopped swelling, and your body begins to run like clockwork again — racing against time. You'll see it in the cracks of dried paint, the flakes of charcoal rubbed against paper, and the slice of your finger removed with an x-acto knife. Here is what you'll begin to know: You are no longer the same. You cannot be pulled out of a block of plaster and you cannot be fused together in a kiln smooth and whole You are only held together with glue stringy and insubstantial. Here is what you need to do: Give yourself grace. Pick away the strings of glue and scrape away the fragmented clumps. One day you will feel whole again: You will create something that is smooth and whole and breathtaking. You will hold her in your arms.

by Rachael Brooks You Will Be Okay: A Letter to my 7-year-old Self Dear 7-year-old seven year old me, Hello sweet girl, who is already wiser beyond her years. You don’t know this yet, but about 15 years from now, your entire life will change. Everything you once knew…will vanish. All of your hopes and dreams…will shatter. Your strong sense of self…will lessen. But don’t be scared. Because I am here to tell you, you will be okay. It may not seem that way at first, or for a while. Just trust me. Right now, you have your whole life ahead of you. Yet, you already have a picture of what it will look like at the ripe age of seven. It looks something like this: you’ll work extremely hard in school, get good grades, have lots of friends, go to a good college, get a good job, get married, have kids, and be a powerful business lady. And let me be the first to tell you, ALL of these things happen. Every single one of them. The straight and narrow path you set out for yourself stayed straight and narrow. At least for those 15 years. I wish I could have told you not to worry as much, not to work so tirelessly, not to love so hard, not to be so tough on yourself. But that isn’t you. It’s who you are and it’s how it will get you to where you need to be. So perhaps lighten up a little but keep that gusto for life. It will be more important than ever when you least expect it to. When you graduate from college, you will be on top of the world. That zest you know and feel will be in full swing. You will be in love and making a big move to a big city to start a big internship. But shortly after all of these big things, you will become small. Smaller than you have ever been. You will not know what to do or where to go from that moment. But, I am here to tell you, you will be okay. You will meet a monster. And he will hurt you. Badly. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He will damage you and will crush your spirit for a very long time. He will be in your nightmares. He will be in your everyday thoughts. This monster will consume you. Slowly but surely, though, you will start to shine again. That strength and courage you already have will be back. You will fight, you will persist, you will win. And I am here to tell you, you will be okay. I need you to always remember these words. You are strong. You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You are courageous. You will do big things in this world. You will make a difference. You will be successful. You will be an incredible wife and mother. You will make it to the other side. So whenever you start to feel afraid in this world or you start to doubt yourself, don’t. Because I am here to tell you, you will be okay. I love you and am so proud of you, 33-year-old me

by. Nizie Lokman Dear Lil’ Nizie, We are moving again. Another city, another country. With teary eyes, the silence of my heart, I have to start all over again. Do you remember that these were the three sentences that came out of you, a week ago in front of your class? The 8-year-old eight year old you told a story about a little girl who doesn't have a home. Do you also remember how you braved every inch of strength you had in you to tell that story? You did it. Every pain of sadness rushed out like a squeezed sponge. You felt free. A sense of healing came deep inside your heart. After the last of your revelation, you stood silent. You looked down on the palm of your hands. It's sweaty, and you were nervous about their thoughts about you. As you lifted your head and looked forward, the teacher and all your classmates of the second grade class in Monta Loma Elementary school, smiled right at you. You felt something special. For the first time in your life, a group of people stood up from their chairs and clapped their hands for you. It was a supportive cheer. They loved your story. Debbie hugged you. Then Caroline, Larz, and before you knew it, all of them walked to you and gave you a group hug. ”I feel sad to see that you had to leave your friends back home. But we are here now.” Brian said. He continued. ”We are your friends here in Mt. View. We will have a lot of fun together.” Just at that moment, a warm feeling inside sat comfortably in you. You are not alone anymore. Amy broke your thoughts. “Don't worry, Nizie. I am your friend. Like you said, home is not just a place, but it's how you make a place, a home. We are your homies.” With all excitement, your whole body responded to this feeling. Your heart spoke to your mind. From now on, you want to tell more stories so that others feel what you feel. Tell us more about Malaysia, someone asks and breaks the silence of your thoughts. I started talking to them.

You realized that it was the moment where it all began. Your dream to be a storyteller. You may discover in the future that every stage of life you may take many roles in your lifetime - a daughter, wife, mother, and a contributor to communities of the world. But because of these many hats you wear, you may get distracted. But the memory of the 8-year eight year old you, who was once afraid and alone became brave and bold with her truths is a reminder of how storytelling made me you feel, still at almost 44 years old. What I'm trying to say is every stage of life requires a different you. Please remember that you are the same person you are at the tender age of 8 eight, and even if you reach the age of 80. You see, Nizie. I'm here not to tell you about what will happen in the future. But, I'm writing this note to make you understand that even though you might go a different direction in life, you must be aware that the experiences of falling and hurting yourself should not stop you from dreaming. It is part of growing up. You need to get up on your feet, stand tall, and keep moving forward. Life is full of surprises. What you are seeking will seek you. If you ever lose courage, have faith, keep the focus on point, and remember the time of how storytelling made you and your friends feel in your class. So, will Nizie’s dreams do come true eventually? You need to go on with life to find out. Get to know yourself. Explore the world and spread your love and passion in whatever you do, and to others too. There will be more exciting dreams to create, an adventure awaits. Love, Older Nizie Nazeha Lokman

by. Naomi Karsudjono Dear Naomi, You're the bravest little girl I have ever met. You stand up proud with stars in your heart And I wish the stars will never fade away. You light up when you're happy And I wish that light will never dim to dark. You dream without worry And I wish worries will never knock on the door. You wish without a single drop of doubt And I wish doubts will never take your wishes away. Hold my hands and never let me go. Please stay... 'cause I need you more than you'll ever know.

by. Leanne Talavera If I Met Myself Again I’d fall to the ground. Supplicate. Forgive. Forgive. Silence. I’d watch her. Tell her. This is me that is her. Say she’s met people. More people. Less friends. More assholes. Less ambition. More reality. More love yet more touching. Yes, touching is now love. I’d tell her how it feels. To ride the crests that dance with the movement of tangled bedsheets. I’d convince her. Hear me out. Just hear me now. How I respond. Encounter Heaven through more than just a Bible verse. Don’t hate me, I’d beg. I am still you. The parts of you that worry. That still forms knots in her throat. That still fears the guillotine of a mother’s disapproval and a father’s lack of one. I’m still you, I’d argue to her. I’d argue to me. I’m still...

by Olivia Delgado Pen Pals I sit with you every day, in the quiet reverse to find my beginning. If I told you what I know, it would be to hold these words close. There are times you’ll worry you’re unlike the rest. After all, what if your warrior heart is buried in the past? What if you can never travel with the pack, what if your wild horse pulse doesn’t come back? The one you held inside when you were young and naïve. When you swung high in the wind beneath an ancient tree. When you played under the Texas heat, and fought villains you could beat. What if the unknown confidence you held when you were a little girl never trickles to your smile again? What if your youth was your savior and the rest all a sin? Like a chorus you can’t forget, these words repeat with no end. And just when you pray for the heavens to listen, you quietly hear a familiar rhythm. One of spunk and courage, of hope and peace, of you are worthy, just believe. So, follow the tune of your golden compass, the one buried beneath your ribs. And remember the girl you used to be, three years old, happy and brave. Does one ever lose that spirit completely? The answer you conclude, is no. For the same girl you were then will always exist somewhere deep within your soul.

by Grace Song Perfect Gift of Thine I’ve held my breath in a pool before. It was when I was 11. I remember how my head bobbed up and down the water and how every cell in my body screamed for oxygen. I remember how the dark indigo body of water spun around me and how the acidic pool water seeped into my eyes and nose. But this isn’t like that. This is more peaceful. I only feel a similar pain in the corner of my heart. The room is filled with a beautiful aroma of perfumed flowers, and the walls are covered in creamy white paint. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous shade of white. It reminds me of the milky linen blanket that I used to cuddle in with my mom during frightening nights of storms and rain. We would wrap ourselves up in that petite little refuge of ours and sit so close - so close that I could hear the thump of her heartbeat, so close that I could smell her soft, delicate skin, so close that our skins slathered against each other until we eventually became one. But this isn’t like that. The sky is of a baby-blue, not the candy-blue or bright-blue or pretty-blue. It’s baby-blue like a small little baby. Wisps of clouds of incandescent joy disperse with the whisks of wind. Bright little rays of sunlight giggle with glee and paint my old, wrinkled arms with brilliant hues of forgotten youth and vitality. So this is how l would die. With a diabetic smelly fat lady stabbing my veins with random needles and grazing my arms and legs with a warm towel. She reached over to adjust the heart rate monitor as her armpits smothered my face. The fetid stench pierced the nerve cells in my nose and diffused through my mouth and esophagus, ravaging the few taste buds I had left. Gagging, I struggled and strained my entire body, but I only had a few functioning systems to even move at this point. At this point, I was now pretty well assured that no one really cared about me or whether I’d die. It was like that time I used to have an intense secret crush on Shirley Temple. I’d hug my Shirley Temple doll while I slept each night and caress it with love, just like the one a parent felt towards his child. But it grew old and lifeless, as did my love and attention for it did. No one knew about the doll, not even my mom, not my best friend, and not even my dog. Every night, for an entire year, I would hide underneath the covers and run my fingers through her soft, yellow locks and sniff the sweet scent of her frilly, red dress. But a year went by, and then another, and my doll soon became a stained, venerable memory. She would sit in the aged attic, resideding on a rotten stool, which adhered no less or no more important than the rusty nail next to it. Her clothes, which once had been woven and smoothed out with so much affection, were now tarnished and tattered, exposing the doll’s naked skin. The pretty red ribbon was now a filthy mess of muddy silk and dust, dangling off the greasy and knotted yellow fibers.

I was lost in emptiness. I didn't know if my eyes were open. I didn't know if I was still on my bed. I didn't even know if I was still alive. I could feel a weak force pulling me towards some unknown. I just wanted to feel some earthly sense one last time. Even just a drop of sweat trickling down my flesh, a faint whiff of alcohol, or even the painful prick of the nurse pulling out my blood. To breathe, to see, to touch, to smell, to hear. But the world was so quiet and lonely.

My mother reached out and ran her fingers over my skin, my tarnished and tattered skin. I shuddered at the icy shock tickling up my spine. Her fingers were like smoothly carven icicles on the barren sheath of my skin. They squeezed my wrist as if trying to forcefully resuscitate the fatigued circulation of blood through my veins, which was progressively slowing to a stop. Minutes passed, and I felt my mother's fingers slowly lifting from my skin. It was so excruciatingly slow that I sensed the hair on the surface of my arm gradually elevate. I looked down, but to my dismay, her fingers were still gently laid on my feeble wrists. It was such a strange feeling to feel nothing at all. It felt almost like pain. A paining coldness that brought the synapses of my brain to an instant halt. The world simply became a meaningless distraction of noise. I was naked, and I was effortlessly floating in an infinite void. I was losing the sense of physical touch. The sense that had once brought me so much bliss was now escaping from my grasp.

Then I heard it. I heard my mom's angelic voice. She was humming a hymn. "To each perfect gift of thine, to our race so freely given. Graces human and divine. Flowers of earth and buds of heaven."

Everything was a blur. All the colors were combining and absorbing each other. It was like I was stirring a large palette full of paint. The colors whirled around me, spurring and throwing me into a multidimensional tunnel of numerous shades. I continuously blinked (or I thought I blinked; I had no perception of bodily movement anymore) to regain my normal vision. But the painstakingly familiar view of the tiny hospital room was almost like an old memory that was just a day too old to reminisce upon.

It was the hymn I had heard every week at church as a child. I remember how much I had hated the song. And now, I was so grateful even to hear something. I wish I had listened more carefully. I wish I had sung with my voice as loudly as possible. It was so majestic just listening to my mom humming that old church hymn. Her voice was like angels singing endless tunes of gaiety and bliss. The force grew stronger, sucking me into the core of the earth. It grew stronger each second, becoming painlessly painful. For the shortest instant, my eyes were blinded by the brightest light, my ears burst with the most deafening noise, and my body electrocuted with pain.

Then it started. A small white spot appeared in the distance. I couldn't even recognize it. But it grew larger, dominating the colorful void, seeping through my eyelids and the entire space. I had anticipated the empty and dark blackness you see when you close your eyes. Instead, all I could see was white. It was the kind of white that you would see if you were in a runty cottage on a secluded island, and were tranquility relishing a cup of tea, looking out the rusty window at the cloudless, white sky. I was completely monopolized by the imbue whiteness. I couldn't see anything, but at the same time, I could see and feel everything in a way I'd never known before.

... A baby cried in the distance, and a family cheered with joy.

Still, I could hear the occasional beeps from the monitor and my mom weeping at my side. I could even faintly taste something metallic at the back of my tongue. The harder I focused on my senses, it became more difficult to know if I still had any. Things were fading so quickly, I tried to hold on to what was left of me. Had it always been this hard to smell? What did it even smell like to not smell anything? What did it taste like to not taste anything?

by. Rachael Chatham Who You Really Are Beautiful, wise, loving girl. You are not alone, although it feels that way often. I am here with you. I have always been a part of you, as your wiser, older inner voice, just as you, my sweet loving child, have always been and always will be a part of me. I know you are struggling to relate to friends and family. I know that no one seems to understand you. I know that you are full of doubts about your own worth, your value, your specialness and your gifts. None of that is your fault. You are so doubtful because the adults that are supposed to help you cultivate your gifts and support you in using them are deeply out of touch with their own gifts. They never learned how to do the soulful work of living well and fully from the adults who were supposed to teach them. There is a long legacy of pain and trauma in both mom and dad’s lives. They both suffered as children, too. They were neglected and abused. They were not shown their own value, either. Unfortunately, they are still not able to recognize or address their traumas on a conscious level. They are doing to you what was done to them. When they can, they are avoiding certain missteps that were crushing to them as children, in this way making some small progress in healing the family line. I know that doesn’t feel like enough. It isn’t. You came into this world expecting to be adored, protected, and guided. And that which you expected, you did not receive. These are profound losses, my darling, and you can sense that pain in the tears you cry. I know the tears don’t make sense to you now but know that you are doing deep work when you cry. You are grieving. And you are honoring your gift of feeling deeply.

Now, let’s get back to your gifts. I want you to read this often, to remind yourself of Who You Really Are: You are compassionate, creative, and curious. Your wonder about people and the mind will lead you on the quest of a lifetime: you will become a student and teacher of the psyche and you will become a powerful healer. First for yourself, and then for others. Your courage and adventurous spirit will take you everywhere you want to go. You will travel to the depths of the soul and you will experience different places and ways of living. All of which will inform your own choices about how to live well. Your capacity to listen deeply and pay attention will bestow upon you the gifts of insight and intuition - once you learn to use them. First you will ignore this gift and you will suffer, but you will learn. Stay patient with yourself as you go through these trials. Remember that suffering leads to compassion. The hard times are growing you up. You have the capacity to be really honest and your willingness to be vulnerable will draw people to you. Your bravery will inspire others and your authenticity will teach them how to show up and be more present and loving with themselves. Remember your connection to the earth, the seasons and the cycles of nature. You are that. Remember your inherent goodness. You are not selfish, you are not a bad girl, and you haven’t done anything wrong. You are a child and there is so much to learn. Even when they are harsh with you, try and be gentle with yourself. You are a gift to this world. I am so grateful to get to be an intimate witnessing presence in your life. I cherish you immensely and I love you unconditionally. Me

by Rashmila Maiti Dear Rashmila, I am sorry for what you went through today. You cried again at your friend’s house. Yes, I know things at home are not perfect. Parents rarely rare. You had to witness a fight yet again, where your father was wrong and your grandparents took their son’s side. You felt angry and helpless at your mother. But, dear girl, parents make mistakes. As you grow up, you will realize how difficult it is to see them as fallible humans who make wrong decisions, take unnecessary risks, and create problems. At the end, they love you, in their own twisted ways. They care for you and they will sacrifice a lot for you. When you decide to live across the world, they will support you. They will always be there for you, no matter how many times you screw up. A piece of their heart, you, will cry over the phone across the time zones, and they will console you and remind you to be strong. They have raised you and are unconventional from Indian parents and so you will grow up to be a perfect balance of both your introvert father and your extrovert mother. You will realize how lucky you are to have parents who respect you and who know what your heart wants before you do. Sweet girl, try to let go of the anger and the resentment that you feel. You are much stronger than you know. Be yourself, the self who reads voraciously, under the covers, hiding her books inside textbooks to read in class, and having at least two books in her bag. Be yourself, who is there for her friends; these friends will last for your whole life. Be the self who studies hard. Be the self who has more dreams than she can follow, the self who is amazed at life, and wants to live every moment. But yes, also try to be more open about your feelings, your relationships, and to new opportunities. I know that you hate change but sometimes ambiguity and instability is are helpful. You cannot control everything, but you can control your reactions. You cannot lose yourself; you have to love yourself as much as you love others. You have to be your best friend. Love and hugs and chocolate pastries, Rashmila

by Rose Baseil Massa ten things I wish I knew when I was sixteen: one. the popular boys won't like a strong woman. keep your distance. two. you'll remember the friday night you stayed home to bake cookies and watch I Love Lucy with your mom more than that party. three. never go somewhere for the instagram. four. love him with your whole heart, but do not lose yourself. five. sex isn't fun until you're ready for it to be. six. the unearthing pain of losing your first love is merely a testament to your revival. seven. give the world all the strength you have to offer - she needs it. eight. turn off your phone when you're with your grandmother. soak in her every word. nine. love is like art; there are no mistakes. ten. love love love love love love love. rbm.

by Sadika Ganguli In The Midst of Thunder in my house when comfort was needed i leaned on a colder shoulder, and when i was older i had come to understand that what i leaned upon was a stiff boulder one where the cracks and crevices made me feel safe and bolder — even when i wasn’t. i used to be scolded and told that i would never amount to a rich bank account and that if only this and if only that i could have all the As in the world and my future wouldn’t be a curled up dead animal on the shoulder of a highway — “you’d be enough” they told her maybe just a bit golder no one wanted to hold her in the midst of the thunder and with each and every blunder her father’s heart became blunter, something like a hunter who can take the life of the innocent —

for pleasure... i wonder how the gun hurt did he really need to punch her? i ask this to myself daily i waited for him to save me, it was something that i craved, see like an alien craving for a new country — just anyone to love me! but then something changed. it was like a miracle i didn’t know if it was real or a figment of a lost imagination that i found in my house’s attic. i was living in the basement with no light in sight i needed a replacement, something without plight. i reached for the door and walked up the stairs — and my eyes saw Her there! Durga! Goddess of courage in idol form here to take me away from this storm like a wave of water washing off an altar i felt Her hand pull me loose of lies and tears loose of the pain of the years... and i don’t know what it was, but i thank God, because

by Jaylee Hamidi Hello world. It’s your first breath, Yes, I’m talking to you darling, For you are a whole wide world within this being called a person, A new life within, Molded, And molting – shedding layers revealing all you’ve outgrown, And hidden carvings of all you’ve learnt. Yes, it’s been a hard life. The oceans that run through you, Sometimes feel like they run you, Coursing through your body, Deep currents of cold and hot, Unleashing powerful waterfalls out of your eyes. Ah, your eyes, Do you see those stars? You are made of cosmic dust, The entire universe is yours, In the curve of Jupiter, And the milky way, You are infinite. The words that tumble from your lips, Shed them with the softness of flower petals, But, do not do so in an attempt to make yourself smaller either, For that fire in your hips, That passion in your heart, Cannot be extinguished by the sharp and cruel particles, Of the shells of those hardened, Of those who have forgotten, That we all come and go the same way, That we all are made of neutron star collisions. In the bloody battles of being misunderstood, Your knees might falter, Stand my darling, Mountains are birthed under uncomfortable shifts, And you too will rise to undiscovered peaks. Don’t lose your taste for untapped potential in both yourself and others. Trust in the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, Remember? You are water, earth, wind, and fire. Go to where you started and there you will find yourself, In the depths of a lonely, cold, dark winter, To find peace, there is sometimes no other way than through it. In your journey to being understood,

Utilize all your senses. Taste. Touch. Smell. See. Foster confidence in solitude, Find the strength in aloneness, It leads to an endless wealth of fortitude. Feel everything so that you may know yourself better every day. That pounding in your chest, That is the sound of music of your ancient ancestors, The drumming of wolves running through the forest, The pounding of elephants running through the Sahara. Do not be fooled by what Narcissus says, Distracting you and whispering into your ear, Of a reflection in the pool, Different than what you see. From the mud of this earth, That houses your brothers and sisters, And all who fall in between, To the volcanic ash that feeds, And from new life breeds, In living color, you are incarnated. So spread your wings inherited from your eagle mother, And fly, Without fear of being Icarus, A false tale to live as so many fearful others. You are soft as cotton, Tough as dragon scales. Protect yourself, And guide others to find the light within themselves, As you have found yours. Shine – and shine brightly. Sing and cheer on those shooting for the stars, And help those fallen, Find their way to the clouds. Time is infinite. It feels endless, But also, short. Make the most of it. Love, You

By. Elyse Johnson Depersonalization Disorder Somedays, a shell is the only thing left, a dedicated viewer watches the program, life. The TV cable surging with intense emotions left unplugged. Laughter, peer pressures assimilation, except only a meek mouse chuckle slips out. Plug in the socket surges failing, just like the time my foot slammed against a brick wall, a numb accident, friends shared concern as I walked unscathed. It was then I realized even if I can’t feel, I still have to pretend to be human.

by,. Eunice Kim dearest, you carry this body like an infection which is to say, like a woman. but the mother-wound shifts & we will learn to live. these hands, clearwater in the dark. last night was the perihelion & i named it for you—blasphemies for a girl who wanted to be uninhabitable. your body is not an afterthought, a phantom limb, an annexed creature halfblind with the widowing of your girlhood. in the full moon, i will take your ugliness & make it mine. my body, my water-soft hands. darling, looking back becomes an act of mourning if you do it enough times. just because we learned to change doesn’t mean we forgot the hurt of it. there is violence in reconstruction & an unacceptable kindness, too.

by,. Fran Westwood Forward Look back to your covered roots held in the system of earth home to your whole body of life— root and adolescent stem, your tough bark garment, twig, bud, and eager fruit, your soul spreading out in the leaf. Roots know the fresh and rotten of you is you, have seen you all the way through failure and flame, as you fed the soil as it fed you. Your ringed trunk tells it— your taut years when the black beetle whittled, the year wrung out with anger, the summer you caught aphids gnawing your leaves, the joy spun at rainfall, at harvest— when did the slow strengthening begin? Your root lattice hidden dark in humus, but your wood hung with the stories— when you have come to belong to them when you have reconciled yourself to yourself back will sing you forward, your future will spread from falling seed— Sow the seed of fruit that knows it came from field, from roots.

by Lisa Johnson Dear Little Lisa I love so much about you. I still can't believe you wake up each morning believing the world is your oyster. You don't question your abilities. You don't second guess your dreams. Drive, tenacity, and confidence clothe you. I'm not entirely sure where these traits come from, But I love you for embodying them. I love that you get up on a stage and dance without fear of judgment. You don't even think about the people wondering why you're up there. Nor do you question your validity as a dancer with a disability. You just do it because it makes you happy. You do it because it makes your soul come alive. And you do it because you're damn good at it. I wish I could bottle you up, Keep you courageous and self-assured, Naive to the opinions of others. However, I'm here to say, Popular opinion does get to you as you age. Beauty standards bombard your opinion of yourself. Success becomes more important than self-expression. A time will come when it will seem extraordinarily important for you to prove yourself. You will fight to show the world your ability. And in the process, you will forget you always mattered, No matter what you did. I'm here to tell you some truths. You never had to dim yourself to fit in. You didn't need to assimilate to be liked. You never had to disconnect from yourself to be connected with others. It was never your job to pick between valuing your mind or your body. Awards, degrees, promotions, and accolades will never speak to your true worth. So, let's try this again. Dear Little Lisa I want you to know, Your value lies in simply being alive. Your worth is inherent. You do not have to earn your place in the world, Nor do you have to acquire acceptance from others. You are kind, warm, intuitive, and smart But that is not the whole of you. I'm here to say you will spend your future exploring your depths, And it will not disappoint. Cheers to the future. You got this.

by Sarah Bennett Young / Old 1. Young A baby cries And I make a sound of sympathy. The click of my tongue means I’m sorry no one prepared you for this world Or I know what it is to be tired and unable to sleep Or I agree, get me out of this room full of people. The mother turns to me and says, “That wasn’t a sad wail. She’s happy.” But there is so much to be sad about. When she grows up, And learns how to cry in secret, Will you tell me her sob means I enjoy being told how to dress Or I love being told what to look like Or nothing makes me feel better than being told when to smile. Her mother will turn to her and say, “I have not found change in my lifetime. Pray you will. Because there is so much to hope for. 2. Old Sometimes I am afraid I will die before I have finished reading a book That’s really, really good. Sometimes I am afraid I will die. Sometimes I want Jesus to return in my lifetime, Not because I want to see His glory But because I do not want to see my own thrown into a grave. I love the elderly But I do not want to become them, I do not want to see my boyfriend grow old Not because I don’t love him But because I’m afraid we will not make it that far. I want all the wisdom and experience Growing old brings with it, But what good is wisdom when you can’t recognise your daughter’s smile Or your son’s eyes, The ones that match your own, What good is experience when you can’t remember your name?

by Martha McNeely Dear Younger Self, I see you. We’ve done a lot of good work together over these past few years. I’ve learned to rescue you in times when we needed saving and didn’t get it. I’ve grown in my ability to hear your desires and needs, and approach you with tenderness and curiosity. I admit there are still places where I need to do work on your behalf and places where I still sometimes feel shame about the girl we were, but those places are softer than they used to be. And now we’re older. We’ve learned to find our voice and stand up for what we believe in. We are better at trusting our gut and loving our body. And now I need your help. I confess that I’m sometimes anxious and ruled by fear, afraid to risk and step out into the unknown. But I remember you, brave one. I remember the ways we would play in the woods with wonder and delight. I remember how we were the girl who could hold her own with the boys. I remember the fearlessness with which we walked through the world. But as I’ve grown, I’ve lost much of that bravery, playfulness, and fearlessness. I know it’s still there, but I need you to show me, to remind me. I need your help to find my way back to who we were meant to be. I’ve spent time learning how to save you, now I need you, in your innocence and wisdom, to free me. With love and pride for the girl you are, Martha

by MG Hughes Korítsi (Girl) I sign this with no return address. The intention of this message comes with no caution, nor do I intend to warn you of any preceding incident that took place during my time. We are two different people. Two stones. Two pebbles being thrown far across a river. And how big will your ripples be? How shall you shape them? You may request advice on this, and as noted before I offer you no answer. To assist your growth would be like stunting my own shoes. If you knew the world and all that is to come there would be no reason for neither either of us to exist. The journey would be futile — not because there is no purpose in knowing the answers but for the fact that any insight I have on us gives you no reason to keep going. What you desire is already there. The very things that trouble you are also not intended to hurt. Sting. Stab. Rot. The toxins of this world are truly meant to assist you. Regardless of the pain you must endure it to grow. That is all I have to say. I am no alien to you. I am your subconscious. I am already home.

by Marla Mason Child, I remember you. I remember your voice and the way you would sing on Sundays, “This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine” as you wore the dresses with the ruffles and frilly socks and matching bows in your hair. I remember your soft nature, the way you would lay across mama's lap while she played in your hair. I remember your brown eyes, brown skin, brown hair and the way you dreamt of becoming an astronaut, then a track star, then a poet. Somehow, I forgot how I came into my womanhood. My mind buried our secrets. I recall being broken from trauma we survived; I hid you in safe places he couldn't get to. I recall becoming this shell without an interest in healing. But our story doesn't end there. I found you through writing. One day, years from now you will remember the songs you sang at Sundays church services. You will find healing beneath eagle’s wings and in shining lights for the world to see. One day, you will see that your light was always there and that your darkest days couldn't last long. Be brave! Your purpose is beyond the pain.

by Sarah Willliamson Oh wild child, Let your heart roam free. Hold onto your imagination Let it lift you beyond this realm. Keep smiling with cheeks that rise beyond your brows The laugh lines you are creating in time will one day be crevasses of beautiful memories. Oh little sunshine, How you beam magic into the lives of those around you. But please, take one of those rays of light Use it to tie your apologies to your tongue. You are not obligated to give them out. Your I’m Sorry’ s are not as inevitable as the sun rising. Use them when necessary When true When you mean it them. For every unnecessary sorry is you apologizing for existing. And believe me darling, Your existence is worthy of life. Oh my sweet, Let your voice be heard. Hold onto your words Let them carry you to share your truth. Keep yourself protected with a shield of armour, of bravery. The road you walk may be treacherous but one day you make it towards the light. Oh sunflower, How you became a master of disguise painting a curvature on your lips and covering any imperfection that meets the eye. But please, take out your chisel Use it to carve out the layers to your authentic self.

You are not obligated to walk through this life in a mask sculpted to fit societal expectations. Your love is not defined by the fairytale you were taught to be true. Your worth is not defined by the standards imposed upon you. Allow yourself to love in whatever form that beauty takes on. And believe me darling, Your love is worthy of life. Oh starlight, Let your mind wander. Hold onto your curiosity Let it drive you to discover the unknown. Keep moving forward with the intent of exploration The beauty of this life comes with being present in the moment. Oh Sarah, How you have grown and evolved over the years. But please, do not let the illusion of time fool you Use it wisely and embrace every moment. You are not obligated to engage in anything that does not serve you. You are in charge of how you spend the moments that make up your days. Use it with your heart roaming free Let the wild child inside lead the path ahead. And believe me darling, You are worthy of life.

by Michelle Robertson To My Girl, I am writing you a letter to list the reasons you will not be the woman you thought you would. Independence happens, but you’re connecting. Babies happen, but you play. Death happens, but you live on. Heartbreak happens, but you love. Education happens, but you’re learning. Success happens, but you’re humble. Men happen, but you’re messy. Change happens, but you compromise. Pain happens, but you grow. Age Aging happens, and you’re beautiful. Life happens, and you are ok, I promise. Love, Michelle

by Sahar Fathi One day I hope when you grow up You know Your name is badass. That you come from people Who are unapologetically hairy, Distinguished with furry unibrows That refuse to be tamed, (But it’s ok – that hair will be in one day). I hope you know That your people should be revered For eating kabob the right way On glorious Persian rugs Under the beautiful starry sky. I hope when you grow up You try your hand at the Tombak, and skip the marching band drums. I hope you eat tadiq every night Followed by rosewater ice cream, Instead of asking for Pizza Hut and Take out food with a greasy sheen. Don’t let people tell you what’s what, Trust your gut. Rise up With the movement. Stand up for what is right. Remember the littler smaller guy, And never give up the fight.

by. Stacey Hohman McClain Letters Letter #1: Little girl with the freckles and the two long ponytails, wedging yourself behind the cardboard box in the hall closet so he won't find you, it's not supposed to be like this. But you don't know that, and that's probably for the best. You don’t know that other little girls don't fear their fathers like you fear a temperamental dog. Don't get too close; don't look him in the eye; don't make too much noise. Not all fathers are like this. Better you don't know, though. You can't be sad for something you don't know you're missing. Little girl, he'll jerk you by the arm out of the closet; he'll let his friends laugh at you when they come over to drink beer in the garage; he'll throw your sister—arms and legs flailing like a spider— over the edge of his boat, splashing into Lake Anna for backtalking him, but he'll never lay a hand on you. He'll be rough and scary and unkind, but not violent. You think now that this is enough, but it won't be that way forever. Letter #2: It's raining, and the fact that you know things aren't right is made manifest by the nauseating humiliation as you walk towards the other kids at the middle-school bus stop with the soles of your Wal-Mart Keds flapping against the bottoms of your sodden socks. Little girl, you're old enough to know he's supposed to be paying child support, but apparently you're also old enough for your mom to tell you he's not. You feel, from the deepest part of your concaved gut, between your two protruding hip bones, that you are not supposed to be this way. So you secretly returned the components of your already-meager packed lunch to their respective places in the cabinets before anyone else woke up. You checked the freezer to reassure yourself that there was food for dinner, even though you'll worry all day about how many calories are in it. Your period started a year ago and you know you should be having it every month, but you don’t tell anyone that it's stopped because they might try to make you eat more. Letter #3: Little girl, who do you think you are? A genuine question. More than anything in the world, you want to be in the group that gathers in the middle of the Commons at school after the final bell rings. They linger in easy, laughing groups with their new clothes and their shimmering blonde hair, in no hurry to rush out to the cars their parents bought them. They don't care that everyone can see them, can hear them shouting greetings to each other in their clear, confident voices. You marvel at how blithely they kiss their boyfriends before separating for the afternoon, all of it like there's nothing to be afraid of. You walk the perimeter.

Letter #4: You think relationships are supposed to be this hard. You're the woman, so you're supposed to be the one who loves the most, makes all the sacrifices, works the hardest. You've learned from your mother's and your sister's marriages that love isn't free, and so you gratefully scramble after the pennies he tosses you. You stand in the rain while he drags on the clove cigarette he'd just bought from the smoke shop where you held your breath as he browsed. You let him have sex with you when he is drunk and reeking of Absinthe, and you suck in your stomach because you know he doesn’t like your body. You do his dishes when you visit his apartment, and you spend your weekends house-hunting with him so that one day he will ask you to live there. You squelch the tiny ember of hope for children because you know he would be a terrible father. Somewhere inside yourself you know he would be cold and absent and impatient and resentful and clueless, because that's how he is with you. You know he would be like your own father. Little girl, you don't know yet that you have the power to walk away. Letter #5 This man learned that you named your dog Frodo, so he had the Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing when you came to his house for dinner that first time. He had trimmed his shrubs and bought candles and hid a dozen hot dogs in the oven in case he overcooked the chicken. You struggled to open a wine bottle with your entry-level corkscrew, so he bought you a new one, presented with a flower. This man told you there's nothing about you he would change. He looks at you like he can't believe you chose him. You think it will be this blissful forever, and that's exactly how you should feel when real love is still new and untested. Little girl, you don't need to know about the challenges yet. But when times do get hard, you will come back to this. Years in the future, when the two of you argue over the cluttered garage or when one of you is worn-out from work, or when you're both tired and frustrated from the months and months of trying to get pregnant, you'll remember that everything begins and ends with this love.

Letter #6: Of all the males you've let define your life, this is the one for whom you work the hardest. This is the one who takes the most. The one who requires your best self: a resilient, capable woman, but, when you're not sure she will show up, this is the one who turns you into her. No matter the length or the struggle of the day, you put his head on your shoulder and rest your cheek against his satiny head, close your eyes and inhale. You sing "What a Wonderful World" before you lay him in his crib. You marvel at his blind trust in your burgeoning abilities, and you marvel at yourself because of them. While you celebrate all the milestones, you grieve their brevity. You listen to his muffled newborn snuffling sounds and feel his finger-flick heartbeat. Every year on his birthday, you'll write him a letter, telling him how much you love him and all the ways he amazed you in the previous twelve months. In a year, you'll write about how you squeezed his tiny fingers in your hands when you helped him learn to walk. After that, you'll describe how you smiled at his toddler cheeks and giggled into his not-so-babyblue eyes as you tickled him under the covers of your bed. On and on you'll go, and eventually you'll write about the year he learned to drive a car and the year he graduated high school. Now, when you're tempted to skip pages in his bedtime stories or rush through his songs, you'll hear an older you whisper a reminder from the future: "Love it. Savor it. This gorgeous half-second of his childhood, it won't last forever." These days of swaddle blankets and playground slides and stories and songs are fleeting, just like so much else in this life. But the knowledge you're instilling in him that he is unconditionally loved, that does last forever. The knowledge that he will always have what he needs. That two people can keep a commitment to each other. The certainty that he is inherently valuable, that lasts forever. The certainty that you are, too: forever.

by Stephanie Kemp Dear Stephanie, First of all, wow, I hardly know a soul that calls you by your full name these days. But it doesn’t feel appropriate to start this letter any other way. Your name has become such an intimate part of you. Not just because it is how people refer to you, but also because of the possibilities you’ve been able to breathe into it. You run your own business – yes, you – which you wittily named after yourself. And in doing so, you were able to move full-time into an Airstream. I repeat, yes, you. Without so much as a second thought, you actually moved into a travel trailer. Alone. Despite never having towed anything but a U-Haul in your entire life. I don’t know who you surprised more when you made that choice. Your parents. Your friends. Strangers. Yourself. It seemed like a far cry from the regimented girl you had always been, the life of routine that had become your safety net when it felt like everything on the exterior was crumbling around you. Stop at nothing to make this choice again. It will change you. In the way that allows you to wake up every morning and flatten your feet to the earth beside you and not wish to be anywhere else in the world. You will see Zion and Yosemite and Sedona. And you will question if anything is beautiful without it being shared, but just remember that you need that question. Know that your quest to find partnership will be made richer because you were able to stand alone. So alone. Inside of those moments. Life on the road will be your final move to put back together all the broken pieces from a toxic marriage that shattered your spirit. You will watch a thousand YouTube videos and cry on the floor and fall asleep at 3am with your MacBook open on its side. And you will also work with amazing people in Texas and spend time with your dad and snowboard for 117 days of the season. I repeat. It will change you. In a way that you need to be changed. So, please, even if they call you crazy, do it. Don’t look back. I’m confident that this choice will continue to carry you even when the tin can is long gone. Because now you’ll know. That home lives inside a person, not a place. And you will refuse to settle for anyone who isn’t lit on fire by your existence.

Because you will spend eight years in the classroom trying to inspire your students to write – feeling like a failure nearly every single day. Then, you will become a writer – in whatever capacity that blogging makes one a writer – and you will realize that this action was the real-life inspiration that they actually needed (because their 20something selves will be brave enough to ink their stories to the Internet alongside you).

Your parents will get divorced when you’re five. You’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But don’t make it your life’s work to avoid their reality. You’ll fail. The logistical pain points of your divorce will pale in comparison to the self-inflicted hardship of working through your unkempt childhood promises. No one judges you for leaving. Not anyone that matters, anyway. And if you just understood this, like really got it, you could leave him so much sooner. You could escape the abuse and start your life without having to sloth your way through years of mere survival.

That thought. The one that whispers in your ear that you are not creative. It’s a lie. And you will eventually shut it up. But, damn, how beautiful – not to be confused with more beautiful – life would be if you never listened to such a scam. In your teens, you will thrive. You’ll make lifelong friends and have memories that will last you forever. You’ll bake cookies and be obsessed with scary movies and eat your weight in Hot Cheetos daily. You won’t care about your pant size because you’ll be more concerned about your free-throw percentage.

He’ll be the worst. But he won’t be the first. And he won’t be the last. You’ll spend way too much time trying to force yourself into a mold for too many men who don’t deserve your dedication. You’ll waste years in relationships that you know are not right, but you’ll lie to yourself that you don’t have the strength to stand alone. You’ll convince yourself that the harder you love, the more he will want to change. You’ll settle for too many guys who aren’t ready or willing to celebrate your successes.

And dear gawd, I wish I knew how to protect you from the world that will make you feel chubby and want to change you. I wish I could hold your hand and remind you from where your beauty comes. I wish I could convince you now to take up as much space as you will ever need. With your body. Your brains. Your words. I wish you understood that men – good men – will see you for so much more than your compilation of skin and bones.

Stop. Fucking. Settling. Just know that you won’t be ready to pick the right partner until you are confident enough to pick yourself. And picking yourself is the hardest work you will ever do.

Your high school years will be filled with more sports successes than you can count on your fingers. You will be surrounded by females who grow up and become some of the fiercest boss babes you’ve ever seen. Hold tightly to them. Take every opportunity to stay involved in their lives. And I don’t just mean through Facebook. Literally, go home. And be okay with going home. And love these people fiercely by physically hugging the air out of their lungs. Take yoga classes at their studios and grab lunch with them at your favorite food spot in Aspen and pour White Claws into empty water bottles to attend Mountain Fair in the name of anti-adulting.

When you’re about ten, you’ll construct all these chapbooks filled with handwritten poems and rudimentary pictures of lollipops and butterflies. People will call them cute. What they’re saying is that you’re talented. Really talented. Store these compliments away for college when you’re sitting in the advisors’ office for the fourth time in four years trying to figure out what to do with your life. Because somewhere along the way, you will convince yourself you’re not creative. You’ll obsess over being a basketball coach (naturally) and you’ll believe that the only plausible career to couple with such a job is to become a school teacher. You won’t even entertain any alternatives.

If I’m being honest – you become so obnoxiously direct in your older age – you could party more in high school. Your obsessive personality doesn’t allow you much room to focus on anything other than school and sports. Your GPA will get you a scholarship (and yet you’ll still manage to acquire a frightening amount of school debt by getting two master’s degrees), but you’ll realize that no one ever really gives any shits about your grades (and those degrees). Seriously, no one. Ever.

And, yes, teaching will also change you. In a way that you need to be changed. The relationships you foster with your students and players will be the catalyst for some of the most profound moments of your life. You will love them like they are your own. They will open your eyes to a world beyond your egotistical existence, and you will need them.

Please note, however, that your disinterest in partying will serve you well in your later years. Despite having no prior experience with alcoholism, you’ll dramatically be confronted by it – twice – with men in your life who say they love you. Men who will promise to protect you. And you will begin to question the inherent existence of integrity in all humans. Your sobriety will be at the epicenter of what saves you. Your determination will save you. Your level-thinking in the face of adversity will save you.

But, ironically, teaching will deteriorate your mental and physical bodies. You will grow increasingly bitter at the education system, and you will leave and you will cry and it will still be one of the best decisions you will ever make in your life.

Does he ask your waiter’s name?

In your twenties, you will try to overcompensate for the life that you subconsciously yearned to experience as a child. Your ignorance will not allow you to access your intuition, and you’ll establish arbitrary boundaries around sex that simply don’t serve you. Please, Stephanie, just have more sex. You will stay in too many broken relationships for the sole reason that you’ve seen each other naked. You’ll talk yourself out of leaving toxicity for the sake of your personal morality. And it will be one of the more ridiculous notions that you hold on to so tightly for the sake of nothing.

Does he tip well? Does he open the door for you? Does he look you in the eye? Does he have experiences outside of the city?

Do not confuse my requests here as knocks on your loyalty. Because, my Leo, you are loyal as a damn lion. Never change that. Never let anyone tell you that you’re too much because you are too bold and too fierce and too unapologetically unafraid in the face of commitment. Just simply understand how this strength can – and will – be a weakness. Because you will shy away from dating for the simple fact that it scares you that men can’t often meet you with the same intensity.

Does he allow you to speak? No, really speak? Does he act surprised when you talk about business? Or sports? Or math? Does he hold your hand when he walks you to your car? Does he text you in the morning just to say hi?

Facts. Your extremist personality struggles to sit inside of lukewarm. And the reality is that dating is a cesspool of dirty bath water. Sit in it. In all of your discomfort, relax into the ripples. Do not be satisfied with what it is, but rather be conscious of your role inside of it. Then, with all the positive energy you can muster, attempt to raise the bar. However high it will go. Just try.

Does he kiss you slowly like the world is standing still? But deeply like it might be ending? Because you are in choice, sweet girl. You don’t have to settle for the first guy that checks all the boxes. Trust me, those boxes will mutate. In fact, you’ll learn that the boxes are altogether imprudent. Your priority should be to pick a man with an open mind. You need someone who sees the world in a similar way, but remember that you will change. He will change. The goal of a relationship is to find a person with whom you can grow. Together. Safely. But not without some occasional discomfort.

And I beg of you, embrace your singleness. Use it to find every configuration of a man possible on this planet. Say yes to the guys confident enough to ask you out. Understand what it means to actually have organic chemistry. Kiss at dirty bar tops and inside movie theaters and underneath the stars. Put your hand behind his neck when he drives you to the grocery store and accidentally graze his backside sans clothing when he’s stepping into the shower. Make jokes. And say the wrong things. And be brave enough to start shitty conversations with the ones worthy enough of your words.

Make sure that he flirts with you like a sixth grader, cracking small sarcastic jokes that are followed by adorations of your cuteness. Please. I beg you. Let him be funny. Find the person who will lay in bed with you every night and laugh until you both can’t breathe. The guy who wakes you up with his tongue on your lips, an open invitation to explore each other at sunrise.

Above all, learn to read the nuances of his actions: Does he return his shopping carts?

The man who crisps the bacon while you scramble the eggs before you share breakfast off the same plate while your head rests softly on his shoulder. Find him. The one who kisses your forehead. The one who praises you, who touches you, who beckons you to braid yourself into his being. The one who would go to the ends of the earth to see one second of your smile. In your thirties, you’ll continue to overcompensate. This time, for the freedom that you feel you lost. And maybe it’s not overcompensating at all because you will also know that you wouldn’t be able to experience your current life without the bullshit. You will firmly believe that the good wouldn’t be as good without the absolute bad as a shocking frame of reference. You’ll no longer fight. Meaning, you will no longer raise your voice to access being right. You’ll have opinions. Lots of them. But now you will know that the world is a whole lot grayer than it was ever black and white. Your love language is words, and you will stand by the fact that the core of any healthy relationship is communication. Lots and lots and lots of communication. Do not settle for someone who isn’t willing to show up. Do not make excuses for people who aren’t willing to do the work. You have too many friends who sharpen you to oblige those who are still blinded by their own ignorance. Above all things, remember that the grass is always greener. Most people are simply jaded by what they do have, which serves as a catalyst for them to yearn for what they don’t. You will inevitably fall into the madness. And I tell you this only to arouse your consciousness. It would be naïve of me to ask you to ignore the inclinations. Because self-awareness is the most difficult quest you will ever face, but to fall into yourself without hesitation is the most beautiful gift. Stop at nothing. Love always, Me

by. Sterling Winter Hey love, I wish you would open your eyes and uncover your ears when you cry, just one time. I know that I abandoned you and I’m sorry. I left you in that closet, in that bed, behind those doors and in that room a long time ago. You never had time to truly be a child due to no fault of your own. Every time I try to come back to your innocence, the thoughts, the memories and the pain defiles me once again. I push you away because I don’t have the time to nurture you. Healing will not be your main priority and it is easy to get lost in remodeling rather than releasing. Your main purpose in life will be to build a house with no doors and locked one-way windows just to look out and observe but never to welcome in. Continue to use daydreams as your defense mechanism, songs to serenade your sorrowful soul, and pick your teeth with all the sharp ended words that tried to puncture you over the years. You are not invincible, you will hurt, shed tears, rage, yell and destroy who or whatever is closest to you. I could tell you; life gets easier but that would be a debilitating lie. I must prepare you for war. I must prepare you to fight. They will not look at your skin and think of beauty, they will not look at your body and say goddess, they will look at you and judge you out of pure fear. Combative, angry, hood, defensive, attitude, crazy, emotional is what they will use as reasons to ridicule you and isolate you from your right as a human being, to be protected. When in reality, you just want to love, you just want to help, and every once in a while, you want to smile a real smile. You want to truly laugh without having to take a sip of alcohol. You want to love safely without the burden of a conditional relationship that requires access to your body. You want to be able to scream in bliss on top of the highest building or mountain without the simultaneous thoughts of jumping off of it as well. I honestly don’t know if you will ever obtain peace. I can’t truly say if you will grow up to be the woman I want you to be, the woman I am literally killing myself over to be. I don’t even know if this is the real me because I could never really figure out who the real you was either. I know we are both hiding, shifting, evolving and surviving. One day I hope you tell yourself that just surviving is not enough because no one can truly be yoked up with an empty shell. All I truly want for you is freedom in every aspect of your life. You have given up so many things for so many people for so long just to save face. I want you to stop taking care of business and start taking care of you. I know that you won’t talk back to me, all you will do is sit in that closet, in that bed, behind those doors in that room and cry. I just want you to know that you are valuable not because of the things that you do, can give or accomplish, but because you are spirit in its purest form. Your existence alone is an act of rebellion towards society, hell, the world! I believe one day you will get up and walk away from it all and whenever that day comes, I will meet you at your very first step, you can put your tiny hand in mine, and we can finally walk away together. Until then I will continue to come back for you because I haven’t given up just yet. Love, Your distant self

by. Vania Vent When you are older, on your way to see her, you will have a vision of a long umbilical cord connecting you two, that, as you get closer, slowly begins to retract on the inner spool that exists inside your belly, and brings you back to her until you are sitting across from each other, and it’s length is back to what it was when you first emerged from her body. You will wonder what it was like to look into her eyes for the first time. Did you feel love? Did you feel wonder? Or did you feel, even then, that her gaze would always have sharp edges? Because you feel it so deeply, you believe her pain is your pain. It is not. It is not your pain, it is not your fault, it is not your responsibility. Her biting sharpness will never dull. No amount of quiet acquiescence will soothe her. Nothing you say or do will heal the wound she guards so viciously. The ways you have figured out to survive your mother are symptoms, not of brokenness, but of brilliance. Your bright light will not always be visible to you, and sometimes you’ll retreat to the shadows. That’s ok. The shadows are nothing to fear. Embrace them. Bring your light to them, remembering that we cannot heal what we cannot see. And when you get glimpses of your shiny, beautiful light, remember the adage that seeing is believing. Alongside the energetic umbilical cord that will keep you connected to her, there exists another one that connects you to your own baby girl. You will look at her as she grows and feel the excruciating heartache and vulnerability of motherhood so intensely that you will wonder if you are going to be yet another in the long line of women from whom you have descended from who could not bear it. You will not be. Your daughter will never question that you loved her. She’ll never doubt the wonder you feel every time you see her. Your gaze will be soft and your arms wide. The hell you raise and the heaven you create will be in equal measure, and you will break the cycle. Cycle-breaker, name-taker, hell-raiser, heaven-creator, light-maker. That’s you, baby girl. That’s you.

by. Talia Bina Little girl with your hand down, burying your bitten fingers in your lap, raise that little palm and be the echo of your mind. Perhaps if that fragile voice is heard, it will strengthen. Little girl circling the blacktop silently, pick up that ball. They won’t laugh when you miss, and if they do, at least you took the shot. Young girl with your bright yellow shoes, don’t look down in shame. Black paint won’t erase the malevolence they vomit onto your lap. If you keep swallowing spoonfuls of the hate they feed you, you will overdose and awaken a broken girl. Young girl with your mother’s shame knocking on your cortex, tell your heart to panic in silence and lean your lips into the unknown. Sneak out at midnight and kiss the boy with promising eyes. Young woman with hands wrinkled from a childhood cut short, believe in those words you hide in notebooks. The truth they uncover might resuscitate the lost.

by. Taylor Kamnetz Hey kiddo, It’s me, Taylor. In light of recent events and revelations, I decided it was time to reach out to someone I know like the back of my hand; to someone who sees the world through the lens I always have — you. You’ve always carried the strength of a category 5 hurricane — it’s just something you inherently possess. You probably feel this strength now, but struggle to identify what that “feeling” deep in your chest is. The things you’ll see; the experiences you’ve had and will have; the trauma created by them… right now, they may feel like a burden. Right now, they’re what sets you apart in a way you never asked for. They’re what provides the ammo for attacks you’ll withstand and face over and over. Before you freak out more than I know you currently are, which, by the way . . . it’s is OK — hear me out. You know the feeling you get in your gut when you’re scared as the lights get shut off for bedtime, but your closet door is slightly opened, and you’re sure that stupid Snowden stuffed snowman is going to come to life; starting the beginning of the end? OK, so, you may react similarly in these situations. Here’s the thing: it’s OK to collapse when you feel your heart drop like you’re flying down the first drop of a rollercoaster. Just don’t ever become content with staying there. Eventually, you’ll start to recognize that fear before it slaps you in the face at recess when it’s your turn to sprint through your classmates arms in a game of red rover.

You see, young grasshopper, the ride you’re on; it won’t be easy. But something that you can’t currently see in the haze of adolescence and youth, is that the strength inside of you; the strength that multiplies after each scare you come out of alive — it’s what will carry you through. Through the body dysmorphia, broken bones and mental health diagnoses. From causing trouble to amending the pain humans can sometimes inflict on one another — yourself included —, an innate ability will be created, allowing you to come out on top, with just enough wisdom to turn your mountains into the mole hills they likely are. You’ll face adversity, sure; but you’ve always seemed to overcome. What I’m saying is that you are a warrior. Your strength may intimidate, your voice might shake the glass ceilings you’ll face, and it might get you into some trouble along the way. Just remember: your voice will always speak truth in all of it’s forms. It will speak and spread light in the darkness. This voice of yours? It will shatter what you thought your dreams were, and lead you to your actual purpose and conversations with the right people — your people. Through the spite, the judgement and the disrespect. Through the self doubt and unwarranted criticisms. Your voice and your truth will always be known. Sure, you’ll be too much for quite a few people, and you’ll close doors to people and situations that only bring toxicity into your life. It’ll be lonely for a while, but you’ll build your tribe up again with truth and understanding. Just know, when there’s an external loss, there’s an internal gain. In the words of Glennon Doyle, “Carry on, Warrior”. With love and loudness, Yourself

by. Gesii Bleu Dear Little Me (age: nine), Slow down, alright. I know you are reading this at lightning speed, quickened by the needless speed- reading class dad made you take this winter, over break. But I need you to really slow down and absorb this one, this is one of the good ones. But you already know that, because you are terrifyingly great at spotting out important writing, and things that need to soak and resonate for future use. Surprisingly that will come in handy one day, when all your friends are scrambling to their Pinterest boards for inspirational quotes and ideas; this treasure trove that you are building in your mind through voracious reading, will be your compass. I’m actually not writing to you to give you advice or bestow any particular bit of knowledge upon you. I am writing to you because I miss you. I miss the abundant energy you possess and your resilience. I miss the way that you bounce back from a setback and challenge, before the tears have even dried on your cheeks. I miss the way you move through time and space, like it’s lighter than air and you haven’t yet met gravity: you float. Landing so nonchalantly that the only imprint you leave are the ripples people feel when you’ve gone. I miss your free and curious mind untethered and unweighted by the opinions and thoughts of others. You’ve not yet wondered, “what does that person think of me” and you won’t know until way later in life, just why that is such a beautiful thing. This is not to scare you about what we become. We are even more beautiful and wonderful then you could possibly imagine, with strength you can’t fathom. We learn and grow exponentially. Your core beliefs and the foundation of who you are will grow roots down to the core of the earth while your understanding and spirituality will grow wings. And oh, we fall in love. The first few times in love we fall down and it hurts like a skinned knee, then a broken bone, then...a broken heart. But when love comes like the eye of a hurricane and we are swept away and carried into a peace at the same time, we soar.

Let’s talk about this feeling you have. It’s just a hair breadth past memory but before you get to imagination, so close you can almost taste it and smell it, but fleeting as a bubble. You’ve never been able to name it or describe it to anyone, you don’t even know where to begin. And it won’t get any easier, you are the first person I’ve talked to about this, even now. You’ve not yet mastered your French studies well enough to read Le Petit Prince yet (you will adore it, thank Dad and Mom for forcing you to study languages throughout your education) so you won’t get why I reference it, but you will soon. It feels like a silken veil hovering just above your eyes, like if you could open them wider, or squint better it would come into focus. Follow that feeling, I now think it’s the stories within you that you want to write, but also the life within you that you are aching to reach. It’s a yearning for the familiar and the adventure, and it is what drives and inspires us.

“Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.” –Le Petit Prince I hope you know above all else, I love you. Through all the stages to come for you I love you. When it gets dark and deep, I love you. When you are not at your best, and lose your way, I love you. When you forget that you love yourself, I love you. When you are manipulated and abused, I love you. When you feel like a sliver of the person you know that you are, I love you. And when you become me, you will remember this letter, this moment, and be reminded that we love us. All the Love in the big ole world, Me

I could talk to you forever, because of course—you get me. But I can’t. One thing you do have yet to learn is time is fleeting, and nothing lasts. And for that, I am so, so sorry. Love everyone you love as much as you can, as gently as they need, and memorize that feeling they give you. I am grateful to not have to tell you to not be afraid, because you are still as of this day, the most fearless person I’ve ever known. I am beyond grateful that I don’t have to remind you to follow your heart and trust yourself. You won’t know why, but you will know what is meant for you and what isn’t. And while I miss you for the wild child with a mind full of stars that you are, I am incredibly grateful for the gifts you’ve given me. We aren’t finished even now, and I’m learning that we may never be. But I know that we both find something extraordinarily ethereal in that.

Meet the Authors

Taylor is a twenty-something, OG Austinite who loves live music, self expression and challenging the patriarchy. Taylor advocates for the destigmatization of mental health disorders and the importance of independent journalism, and is a firm believer that transparency and acceptance is the fundamental building block to life Sterling Wilmer is currently working on her second degree at New York University and is set to complete her bachelor’s in nursing within the next year. During her first degree in psychology at Texas State University she has had a variety of experiences in journalism and podcasting at the University Star Newspaper. You can see the passion that she has for issues dealing with minority communities, mental health and intersectionality within many of her columns. When she is not studying or sleeping, her pass times is spent tending to her first love which is writing poetry. One day she hopes to be able to help others through publishing a book of poems and a affirmation journal that focus on healing from the many traumas of life. Stephanie is a former college athlete, present creative engineer, forever road warrior, and aspiring standup comedian. She won a coloring contest in fourth grade. Writing is her jam. And she doesn't like coffee. Seriously. In 2018, she spent a year living in an Airstream, chasing rock faces in the summer and powder days in the winter, while running her freelance marketing agency and blogging about her adventures (both the mundane and the magical). She's currently calling downtown Denver home in the endless pursuit to build her own version of the American Dream. Follow along with her on Instagram @by.stephanieleigh and find your own road. Stacey Hohman McClain is a teacher and writer whose work has appeared in Away: Experiments in Travel and Telling, Literary Mama, Mothers Always Write, Motherly, Adanna, and is forthcoming in The Sunlight Press. She lives in Charlotte, NC with her husband and son Sarah is currently studying a Bachelor of Arts with a major in Writing, with the hopes of publishing her own book of poetry one day. Until then, she posts creative writing, alongside other posts, on her blog (www.bemy2017.com) three times a week. Michelle Lewis-Robertson is a Nehiyaw/British Iskwew from Calgary, Canada. She currently lives on the Isle of Man with her family where she enjoys taking photos and learning about her surroundings being involved in women lead activities. She is on twitter @HalfbreedE Sahar graduated from the University of Washington Law School and is a member of the New York bar. She has served as adjunct faculty at both Seattle University and the University of Washington School of Law. She has been published in the Seattle Journal for Social Justice, the Seattle Journal of Environmental Law, and the Gonzaga Law Review. Her poetry has been printed in 'Writers Resist' and the 'Writers Resist: Anthology (2018).' It has also been featured in the 'Feelings' journal,' 'Not Your Mother's Breastmilk' and is forthcoming in 'Swimming with Elephants' and 'ARTS by the People.’ Marla Mason was raised in the church and found comfort in singing and playing with her siblings. Today Marla wears several hats including that of mother and writer. Marla loves to create and bring out the smile of the little girl she once was. Her letter to her younger self embodied her belief in resilience and the power that it holds. Marla is happy to share her letter and her story because the journey continues for so many of us, even the ones just starting. Email: mmasonpoetry@gmail.com / Instagram: mmasonpoetry

M. G. Hughes is a poet and novelist. Born and raised in San Diego, California, her debut poetry book *I Only Have Marmalade* is set to release later this year. Martha McNeely is a psychotherapist practicing in Seattle, WA. Her therapeutic approach is relational, psychodynamic, and traumainformed. She works with clients to help them discover their true, authentic self so they can live into who they were meant to be. Martha is an aspiring dog owner, and a lover of good coffee and cheeseburgers. You can learn more about her private practice at www.marthamcneely.com Lisa Johnson is a disability and mental health advocate. She is passionate about bringing visibility to disability. Lisa holds a Masters in Counseling Psychology and uses this background to influence her writing, which focuses on the Mind + Body connection, as well as the importance of personal story work. Fran Westwood is an emerging Canadian poet and qualifying psychotherapist. She writes poems that help her pay attention to her life, often on finding belonging and bridges in challenging landscapes. Fran’s work has been published by Contemporary Verse 2, the Poetry Pub and For Women Who Roar. She has pieces forthcoming in Snapdragon, Prairie Fire, Inanna's Canadian Women Studies journal and in a 2021 collection by Flying Ketchup Press. Eunice Kim is a Korean-American writer living in Seoul. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Polyphony, Eunoia Review, The Hellebore Press, Vagabond City Lit, and more. She currently works as a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal and a volunteer writer for Her Culture. Elyse Johnson is a recent alumna of Stephen F. Austin State University where she studied Creative Writing. It was during this time within her final year that Elyse sought help from a counselor. There she got a second opinion about her symptoms that to the counselor sounded like Depersonalization disorder. It is a disorder that is caused by a traumatic event, such as death of a family member, and a strong feeling of abandonment. The symptoms then included out of body experiences as if watching her own life through a television screen. As well as, losing a sense of time and a rather numb feeling to the body as if it wasn’t her own. Within counseling the source of this disorder, surrounding her father’s death when four year’s old, and learning techniques to “stay in the moment” Elyse gained back some control Jaylee Hamidi is an actress, writer and artist from Vancouver, Canada. Tenacious and bold, she faces her fears head-on, and is always up for a challenge. Between her time filming and writing, Jaylee collaborates with her creative peers across various mediums. The daughter of a Chinese mother and Iranian-Kurdish father, Jaylee was born in China and immigrated to Canada as a wee-baby. Jaylee holds a bachelor’s degree in Sociology from the University of British Columbia. As a queer woman of color, she is especially interested in exploring society’s understandings of intersectional identities and their significance within different contexts. In her spare time Jaylee enjoys yoga and hiking. An avid cook and baker, she is often trying out the recipes she sees on The Great British Bake Off. Sadhika Ganguli is a junior at St. Mary’s Episcopal School in Memphis, Tennessee. Her work has been published in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing and The Athena Review. Poetry is her passion and writing, in general, has not only gotten her through tough times but has been able to complement the good in her life. Rose Baseil Massa is a passionate writer and womanist. She recently graduated from the University of Southern California, where she studied business and social entrepreneurship. She loves all things poetry, and her writing commonly explores themes of love, girlhood, healing, and power. She currently resides in New Jersey. Olivia Delgado is a Creative Writing/English major at Southern New Hampshire University. Her work has been published in the Texas Anthology: A Celebration of Young Poets, the anthology Hidden Lights, the online journal The Junction, and most recently in Harness Magazine. She currently resides in her home state of Texas where she works on crafting new poems and short stories. She aspires to teach writing therapy in the future.

Rashmila Maiti holds a doctorate in Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies from the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. Originally from India, she is an independent scholar who lives in Oregon. When not writing about books or films, she volunteers as an editor and social media coordinator for various non-profit organizations. Rachael Chatham is a psychotherapist in private practice living and loving in Asheville, NC. Her work has been published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and Awakened Voices. When she is not writing, reading, practicing yoga, or spending time with her boys, she is likely reconnecting with her own inner child. You can find her online at theskillfulself.com where she guides individuals in finding meaning in their lives and relationships using a psycho-spiritual approach. Rachael Brooks is a first-time author who currently lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with her husband and two children. She graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with both a masters of accounting and an undergraduate business degree. She is a former tax accountant who is now a stay-at-home mom. Rachael is a sexual assault survivor and has had an active role in the Survivor Speaker’s Bureau at a local non-profit organization since 2013, of which she also sits on the Board of Directors. Immediately impacted by the #MeToo movement in 2017, Rachael set out on her own personal mission to make her story known and join the thousands of courageous women and men who have also come forward to share their stories of survival and hope. Grace Song is a ninth-grader attending Seoul International School in Seoul, South Korea. She is currently working on her writing portfolio for summer writing camp. Her other activities include eating with friends, listening to music, and watching horror movies Leanne Talavera is a third-year student studying Literature and History at New York University Abu Dhabi. Her poetry has often focused on identity, language, culture, and womanhood; but sometimes she just writes whatever comes to her and whatever she feels like. She loves tea, coffee, dogs, and cats. She hopes to one day own a family of pets. Born in a rural village within a forest in Sumatera, and now recides in Banjarbaru, South Kalimantan, Indonesia, Naomi lives a simple life with her family. She enjoys painting, gardening, and sewing in the morning. Later in the night she pours her heart in words and share them with the world. Courage is born from pain and passion. Having medical parents who travel for work in different parts of the world, Lil Nizie was always on the move. It meant leaving friends behind. She buried her pain to herself & decided one day that she needed to take the courage to tell her little story. It leads her to spaces she never imagined. The Nizie Nazeha Lokman now is a freelance writer, brand storyteller, and a mother. The Letter to My Youngerself was a great way to heal the remaining parts of her life from her childhood insecurities. Today, driven by dreams, she sees life differently and takes the opportunity to turn her struggles into success stories & share it with her readers. Reach out to her at Instagram @niziexpress. She is also a strong supporter @forwomenwhoroar. Katie Ellen Bowers was raised in Charleston, SC, but is now sowing seeds with her husband and daughter in the small, rural town of Heath Springs, SC McKenna Neville is a senior Communication Studies and Religion Double Major at Samford University. Her work has been published in GoodGrit Magazine, COMO Magazine, The Dead Mule, and several other small publications. You can see this work at mckennaneville.com. Talia Bina is a college student studying psychology at the University of Delaware. She has a passion for writing mental health articles and other pieces about her life, but has always been a poet at heart and hopes to reach the hearts of many people through her writing. Vania Kent is a contemplative and writer exploring the intersection of new monasticism, feminism, and social change. She lives in Frankfurt, Germany with humans, a dog, a few fish, and an obscene number of house plants.

MaryJean Zajac is recently retired from her employment as an Immigration Paralegal for the University at Buffalo where she worked for 17 years. She has always enjoyed writing prose and poetry and has been published in Funny Pearls, The Buffalo News, My View and several local papers for her poetry. MaryJean lives in Western New York and enjoys her five grandchildren and writing. Julia Nizen is an ambitious young writer residing in Wilmington, NC. She is a passionate activist for the disability community and a competing slam poet. She is currently working on a collection of poetry she hopes to publish in 2020. She is also pursuing her Undergrad in both Psychology and Creative Writing, before getting a Masters in Psychology. She plans to pursue work as a psychotherapist and teach college creative writing courses with a focus on poetry. Kristen Dalli is an emerging writer from New York. She graduated from Marist College with a Bachelor's degree in English, and is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Non-Fiction from Fairfield University, where she serves as the Co-Editor-in-Chief of CausewayLit, and as an Editor for Brevity. Her work has either appeared or is forthcoming in Stone Canoe and Thought Catalog. Kira is an aspiring writer and educator. She is currently a junior at Holy Family University where she studies English-secondary education. She teaches in daycare, recreational dance classes, and is pursuing high school English. Katie Burgess (pronouns: she/her/hers), a queer/non-binary femme, writes about her trauma, anxiety, and experience growing up low income in Appalachia through poetry and auto-ethnography. She also dabbles in sculpting, yoga, and mediocre dog training with her wonderful dog, Ruby. Emma Knighton is a woman who has found her super powers through healing from trauma. She is a somatic trauma therapist and a psychedelic-assisted therapist in Seattle, and identifies more with the label of "transpersonal midwife" than therapist. Emma holds strong trust in the process of becoming and works to activate the balance of surrender and empowered ownership in the people she works with. She is a lover of trees and finds her roaring wisdom through dissolving into nature. Kaity Johnson is an autistic, queer, Southern American writer and activist. A native of North Carolina, she currently lives in Atlanta with her two daughters, Berkeley and Abilene. Emerald Kirk is from Boca Raton, Florida. She received her bachelors of arts in English with a minor in History at Stetson University in Deland, Florida. After publishing her first book, "Tales of the Syndicate of Valor," in October 2017, she returned to Stetson University to pursue my MFA in Creative Writing. She graduated from the MFA program in December 2019. When it comes to writing, she likes to write about queer women, focusing especially on women in same-sex relationships. Chante Owens has been writing since she was old enough to wield a gel pen across a composition notebook. She holds an MFA in nonfiction writing from Pacific University and explores various aspects of her identity through personal essay. Born and raised in Reno, Nevada, she now lives in the Bay Area where she works in digital media, but dreams, even still, of the desert. You can find Chante on Instagram: @chanteo. Bianca Singelstad is a junior at Lake Mills High School in Lake Mills, Iowa. Aside from writing, Bianca is an active participant in band, cheerleading, choir, speech and dance. She loves to take road trips with her friends and host team-builders with her cheer squad. While she has performed original pieces at local speech competitions, this happens to be her first published work. My name is Alicia, and I am a proud, recently married queer woman. I love hiking with my dogs, exchanging poetry prompts with some of my dearest friends, and revisiting Hogwarts whenever possible. I am also a Broadway junkie and high school English teacher in my spare time - yes in that order.

Dreen is an incorrigible logophile and Education enthusiast currently living in St Paul Minnesota with her daughter. She has been published across countless mediums and will have her book, The Sparkgiver's Experiment in stores shortly. By day she is a teacher, but by night she operates an educational writing business Daee Dreamz, and magazine Entropy Island. Her hobbies include alerting everyone to the presence of llamas and memes. Carmen is a part time social media manager and full time entrepreneur whose focus is on female empowerment and building a supportive community for mothers. She lives in Toronto, has 4 amazing kids & loves to relax by listening to her favourite podcasts. Beth Curran has been teaching English for twenty-two years. Her poetry focuses on the mysteries and everyday wonders of being a woman, wife, mother, and New England girl at heart. For the past few summers, she has been attending the Conference on Poetry and Teaching at The Frost Place, tucked away in the mountains in Franconia, New Hampshire, where she served as their 2019 Schafer Teaching Fellow. Her poetry has appeared in Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Write Launch, as well as a High Shelf Press. Her work has also been featured in the Wickford Art Association's annual Poetry and Art Exhibition. She currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her family. Brianna Schullo is a creative non-fiction writer, blogger, and poet. She graduated from Lake Forest College in May, where she studied Creative Writing and Environmental Studies. She writes goofy, but sometimes sentimental pieces for her blog http://chefboyarbri.com. Be Shakti currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with her coyote-wolf pup Rio. She works full time teaching Yoga on both the east and west coast, specializing in Yin Yoga as well as in teaching the body as a map, metaphor, and memory keeper of our lives. For more on Be, head to www.beshaktiyoga.com Autumn Oldaker wrote a letter to her younger self that she felt would've been helpful. Autumn wants this letter to be not only to her younger self but to all the young women that are struggling with hormones and who they should love. Autumn wants to show these emotions in all of her writing, and she also likes to create emotional art not only through her words but with pictures. Bryana Saldana is from Orlando, FL and battles with bipolar disorder, PTSD, and anxiety, all due to trauma she has experienced throughout her life, everything is being managed successfully. She has been writing since grade school and poetry is her antidote to the chaos of her mind. She is currently finishing her degree in Creative Writing and would eventually like to obtain her MFA in poetry. This is her first publication. Ashley Caron is trained as a Life Coach and Meditation Teacher. She partners with non-profit organizations to raise awareness on issues around women’s empowerment, gender equality and mental health. Ashley shares tools, insights and resources to help women unlock their full potential and create the life they deserve. Alliyah Greaver is currently a seminary student working toward a Master of Divinity degree. She is especially interested in the poetry that God writes into creation and scripture. Alliyah is a writer of fiction and non-fiction and was a contributor to the interfaith non-fiction publication, "A Spectrum of Faith.” Anastasiya Sukhenko is writer and self-taught photographer. Currently, she is an undergrad student at the University of South Florida majoring in psychology and minoring in creative writing. When she isn’t battling the blinking black line on a document, you can find her re-watching The Office or reading a high fantasy novel. Her portfolio of words and photos can be found at https:// sukhenko.wordpress.com/.

Letters To My Younger Self

Articles inside

Emerald Kirk

Bianca Singlestad

Dreen Lucky

Carmen Mosquera

Alliyah Greaver

Autumn Oldaker Beth Curran

Bryana Saldana

Be Shakti

Editor ' s Note

Ashley Caron