Dear Little Me,

I remember you. Not just your face, but your silence. The way your shoulders curved forward like you were trying to disappear. The way your feet never felt grounded because you never knew which house you’d be sleeping in next. You never had your own bed. Your own room. Your own safe place to fall apart. You were always just visiting.

You learned how to shrink yourself, to stay polite, quiet, helpful. People loved how easy you were. “She’s so sweet.” “She’s so mature.” “She never causes trouble.” They thought they were complimenting you. But really, they were praising the pieces you hid. The hunger. The ache. The fear. The way you held your breath just to be allowed to stay.

I remember how carefully you folded the clothes that were never yours. How you picked through hand-me-downs hoping to find something that fit just right—not just your body, but your sense of worth. I remember when the school secretary would call you to the principal’s office, and there would be a black trash bag of donated clothes waiting for you. You’d smile, say thank you, then carry that bag back to class, pretending it didn’t burn in your chest like shame. Those clothes weren’t gifts. They were reminders that you had nothing of the your own. Not even dignity.

No one asked how that felt. No one noticed how you walked a little slower down the hall after. No one saw the way you held your tears until you got home—wherever “home” was that week.

You didn’t cry much. You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask for help. Not because you didn’t need it, but because somewhere along the way, you decided needing anything made you a burden. You were wrong, baby. But I know why you believed it.

You didn’t want toys. You didn’t want extra snacks or attention. You just wanted to be claimed. To be someone’s. To hear someone say, “You’re staying.” “You’re mine.” “You don’t have to earn it.”

But no one did.

So you learned how to survive without ever feeling safe.

You packed your sadness into silence. You smiled to keep from sobbing. You carried yourself through a childhood that didn’t carry you back. And through all of that—you still loved. Quietly. Deeply. Completely.

Now, I’m grown. I’m the woman you became. And I need you to hear me with everything you never got to say out loud: It was never your fault.

You were not unlovable. You were not too quiet. You were not a problem. You were a child who deserved to be kept, to be protected, to be cherished. You were worthy of a soft place to land.

You didn’t get that. But somehow, you still became it.

I have children now. And they have me. A mother who shows up. A mother who stays. I’m not perfect. I still carry your wounds. I still cry some nights when the house is quiet and I feel the ghost of your loneliness sitting beside me.

But every day, I choose differently. I give them what you never got. I wrap them in love that doesn’t leave. I tell them they are enough, not because they behave, but because they are.

They will never walk to the front office to pick up bags of clothes that whisper, “You have nothing.” They will never wonder if they’re wanted. They will never look into the mirror and ask if they matter. Because I stay. Because I hold them the way you needed to be held.

You didn’t get to be a child. But now, because of you, my children do.

You were the girl no one kept. But I became the woman who keeps everyone safe. You were the child who was forgotten. But now you live in a home built from your strength. A love made from your longing.

And I want you to know something that still makes my voice shake when I say it:

You made it.

I came back for you. I chose you. And I will never let you go.

Love always,  Me  The mother you needed.  The home you became.