Dear Me,

We didn’t meet in a coffee shop.
There was no collision in a cinematic twist of time.
To be honest, I think of you often. You are like a shadow flittering about in the corner of my best days, trying to separate yourself from my being. You’re still there, always there, your shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes scanning for something to prove.

You were always trying. God, you were always trying. Too much. Too often. Always too much.
You wanted to be everything. For everyone. All the time.

You wished you were smarter, faster, stronger. You wanted to be the sister they could be proud of. Watching two little sisters in the yard with a heart full of love and a brain swelling with guilt, thinking, I should be better. I should be there more. I should just do better.

You thought if you could just push harder, at school, at practice, at work, in every hallway of your life, that you’d earn the peace you thought other people were born with.

You thought being enough meant doing more. Lift heavier in the gym. More decisions you made. More medals, more ranks, more pages filled, more tears swallowed.

And then somewhere along the way, you grew up. You became me.

Not in the loud, obvious way. But quietly. The type that comes from stretching out your legs and realizing they don’t shake anymore. Or standing in the place you once imagined and realizing you’ve made it. Like watching your sisters become strong, kind women. Not because you weren’t perfect, but because you loved them so much that even your self doubt looked like strength to them.

You ended up exactly where you were meant to be. Where you needed to be. Where I am. Not because you outran your flaws, but because you learned to live with them. You learned that being a better leader wasn’t about barking louder, it was about listening more. You learned that being stronger wasn’t about lifting more weight, it was about not collapsing when the emotional weight got heavy.

You learned that school, and work, and performance mattered.
Not at the expense of people though.
Not more than purpose.

You fell in love with the things that last. You stopped- I stopped- no, WE stopped letting the ghosts of “not enough” speak louder than our own voice.

If I could reach back to you, back to the tired, overachieving, aching, beautiful version of you, I’d tell you this:
The version of you I am now isn’t flawless.
But she’s free.
You don’t need to keep running.
You are not behind.
You are not late.
You have arrived, and right on time, a perfect entrance.
And you are more than enough.
We have learned that WE are more than enough.

Love,
Me, you, us.
The one who finally forgave the both of us.

Dear Shop of Stories,

I walk in and am hit with the strong scent of antiseptic and adrenaline. To me, though, it feels like a confessional.

I remember walking in scared that first time, not because of the pulsating needle, but I was scared of being seen. I wasn’t there to be rebellious or to ruin my body. I was there because I needed to remember something. Someone. Myself.

There weren’t many questions asked, I just got pointed to the chair and nodded like I understood. With a small buzz and a slow, careful, gentle hand, you gave me my sister’s handwriting, looped and familiar, across my right forearm. My first tattoo. A permanent reminder of her voice, even when she’s not around to say the words out loud, and we grew miles apart.

The second one came months later, in the form of my middle name, tucked beneath my collarbone. The comfort of the leather chair, the needle buzzing again, but this time I was excited. A name I used to hide, then later learned to reclaim. It was never about vanity, but something to express my newfound love of the favorite version of me. It wasn’t my name directly, but rather, images that told stories, and explained the love I had for three letters.

Then came the picture of Icarus. Not because I wanted to glorify his fall, but because I needed to honor his flight. Glorious wings spanning the back of my upper arm, reaching for something just out of frame, just off of my skin. A reminder that even if I crash, at least I tried.

The shop, the artist, everyone, they never judged the reasons I came back. Never treated the ink like trends, or believing I was stupid for wanting a certain image or specific words. I just kept getting handed the mirror and the ink, letting me rewrite the parts of me that once felt too fragile to hold.

Slowly, my arms got covered in stories, stitched in black permanence, in lines and curves, a visible roadmap of my life. Of surviving. Of growing and becoming me.

It didn’t just change how I looked. It made me remember who I was.

Sincerely,
The Girl Who Wears Her Life Story in Ink