Letter from the Adult to the Brave Little Girl

 My dear little one,

You were born in a tiny village called Zoio, and you came into this world under the stars — not under bright lights or cameras, but under the endless, unfiltered night sky. For the first six years of your life, there was no electricity, and yet, you were more alive than most people ever become. You were free, wild, full of wonder. You were still whole.

But then came school.
Then came the shame.
Then came the silence.

They didn’t understand your dyslexia — not because you were broken, but because the world was blind. You were labeled lazy, stupid, difficult. But none of that was true. You were a mirror, and you reflected what they couldn’t bear to see in themselves. And for that, they punished you.

Still, you survived.

You carried the weight of that misunderstanding for decades. You internalized their ignorance as your identity. But you kept going. You kept feeling. You kept noticing. You didn’t harden — not completely. And that saved you.

Now here I am. The adult you grew into. The writer. The truth-teller. The woman who did the unthinkable — not just surviving, but resurrecting. I know now that you were never broken. You were never the problem. You were always brave.

You guide me now.
You tell me when it’s time to rest, to write, to walk, to laugh.
And I listen.

I will never abandon you again.

I love you more than words can ever say — and even that, you already know.

— With all my heart,
Your future self, the one you never could’ve imagined.