The Ache Within Me.

Chapter 1

In the After

Dear Young Reya,

I don’t really know where to start, or what to say, because this isn’t the letter you were expecting. I know you probably thought that by now I would have it all figured out. That I’d be happy, strong, and full of light. But the truth is, I’m still here, still feeling so lost sometimes. Even though I’m surrounded by people who love me, I often feel like I’m alone. Like I’m still that little girl, sitting in the dark, waiting for someone to see me.

But here’s what I need to tell you…what I wish someone had told me back then: It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to feel sad when your heart is aching. You don’t have to push it down, hide it away, or pretend everything is fine. I’m telling you this because I need to hear it, too. Sometimes, I don’t even know why I feel so heavy inside. Maybe it’s just something we have to live through, something we have to feel, so we can understand what true happiness feels like when it finally comes.

I’m giving you permission to feel every tear that falls, every moment of hurt. Don’t hold it in for anyone. Don’t bottle it up because you think it will make others more comfortable. That will only make the sadness linger longer. You are allowed to cry, little one. You are allowed to feel lost and confused because those feelings don’t make you weak. They make you human.

But listen, I need to tell you something else, too. There will be moments, even small ones, when happiness will sneak through the cracks. There will be glimpses of joy, moments when your heart feels light. I know you won’t know what to do with them because they won’t last long. But please, please learn to hold on to those moments. Grab them, clutch them tight, and never let go. Even when the darkness comes back, those moments of light are real. Don’t let the sadness steal them from you.

I don’t have any answers, little one. I wish I could promise that everything will be okay and easy and perfect, but I can’t. What I can promise is this: you are strong enough to face whatever comes your way. Every hard thing you go through will shape you, but it Will. Not. Break. You. You have an incredible strength inside of you. Every challenge, every struggle, every heartache will shape you into something more resilient, more capable. And though it may seem overwhelming at times, none of it will defeat you. Though happiness may seem distant now, it’s worth chasing. And I promise I won’t stop until we find complete joy in our souls.

I love you. I’m here, and I will always be here. Even when it feels like no one else is.

With all my heart,

Your Older Self

            I set the pencil down and stare at the uneven lines of my handwriting bleeding across the page. The ink blurs under the weight of my tears, each droplet splashing down onto the fragile, metaphorical younger version of me captured in these words. The paper feels damp beneath my fingertips, cool and soft, as if it, too, is succumbing to my sorrow. A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow hard, trying to keep the flood at bay. I am about to leave for therapy, but I needed to purge some of this weight first. I needed to give my younger self the words I wish she’d had back then, an assurance she wasn’t alone. That she isn’t forgotten. That I still feel her trembling spirit deep within me and that, somehow, I’m trying not to give up on her.

Sitting at my wooden desk, the surface nicked and worn, and familiar under my arms, I let my emotions take over. The color, a muted green, was supposed to feel calming. But today it feels heavy, like moss overtaking the edges of a neglected stone. The pink walls surrounding me offer little solace, their cheerful hue almost mocking my melancholy. They were meant to be a symbol. A declaration that I finally had a favorite color. Instead, they feel suffocating, a bubblegum cage closing in around me. The faint smell of soil and damp leaves wafts from the plants on my shelves, a reminder that life can still exist, even in the shadowy corners of despair. The books lining the walls sit steadfast, their vibrant spines full of lessons I tell myself I’m not too old or too fractured to learn.

In front of me, pinned to the wall above my computer, are crayon-scribbled pictures my daughter made years ago, their colors bright but chaotic. My chest tightens when I look at them. They tug the corners of my mouth into the faintest of smiles, but the smile comes with a sting, a needle laced with guilt. I’ve talked about this in therapy too many times to count. The guilt for leaving her, guilt for not being the mother she deserved. Dr. Jenson always says I have to live “in the after” but the before looms over me like a shadow. I can still see her tiny hands clutching the crayons, her voice bubbling with excitement as she explained her drawings.

One picture in particular catches my eye. There are green clouds drifting lazily above red grass. Two stick figures stand in the center, one tall and one small, both in matching dresses. The smaller one looks up at the taller with a smile that only a child can draw: lopsided and pure, and radiating adoration. The scene feels like a storybook land, detached from reality. It’s a world we could’ve built together if only happiness had been enough to bind us. A world where green clouds hang in a sky that never rains, and nothing is broken.

My gaze falls back to the journal in front of me. My newest letter to my younger self sits there, the ink scrawled desperately, as though I could somehow reach through time and shake her, tell her to hold on. I wish I hadn’t been dealt such pitiful cards. I wish I could have been her hero.

A shuddering breath escapes me as I swipe at my eyes with trembling hands. My cheeks are sticky, my throat raw. Therapy is calling, and I know I can’t be late. My movements feel mechanical as I rip the page from the journal, the paper crinkling in protest. I ball it up, pressing it into a tight, angry sphere before tossing it into the wastebasket by the door. The sound it makes as it lands, a hollow thud, reverberates in my chest.

Throwing the paper away feels like more than just discarding a journal entry. It’s a quiet refusal. A refusal to carry the weight of a truth I’m not ready to live with. That letter held a version of me I’m still ashamed of, still grieving, still trying to love. By crumpling it, I’m trying to silence the ache within me. To deny the guilt that clung to every word. Maybe it was too honest. Maybe it touched something too raw.

I hesitate, one hand resting on the back of my chair. My heart feels heavy, like a weight I can’t set down. For just a moment, I allow myself to wish, fiercely, desperately wish, that I could love myself. That I could be someone worth loving.