Dear Little Girl

A letter to my younger self, trying to help her understand what parenting should’ve been

To the Little Girl I Was

Little girl,
with scraped knees and quiet eyes,
with fear sitting heavy
where laughter should have lived—
come here.
Let me kneel down to your height
so you don’t have to look up anymore.

You were five.
Five years old
with an accident in your hands
and terror in your bones.
A door shattered—
but it was you who broke inside,
and that was never your fault.

Those stripes on your legs
were not lessons.
They were cruelty wearing authority,
pain pretending to be love.
You did nothing to deserve them.
Nothing.

You were not bad.
You were not careless.
You were not too loud, too much, too anything.
You were a child
who deserved gentleness
and got survival instead.

You carried weight meant for grown backs—
babies, blame, silence.
You learned how to disappear
before you learned how to rest.

But look at you—
still loving,
still hoping,
still breathing
through everything meant to stop you.

I am here now.
I take the switch from his hand.
I take the shame from your shoulders.
I take the fear and lay it down.

You don’t have to be brave anymore.
You don’t have to earn love.
You don’t have to survive today.

Come stand behind me.
I will be the one who says enough.
I will be the one who protects you.
I will be the one who stays.

Little girl—
you are safe now.
And you always were worthy.