I just stumbled upon my writings from my early 20s, and somehow ended up rereading a whole blog.

And honestly, I envy her a little.

Not because her life was better. It wasn’t necessarily easier. She was angry, sad, bitter, confused, dramatic, and sometimes joking about things that probably hurt more than she admitted.

But she was honest.

She wrote what she felt. She wrote what she saw. She didn’t always try to make herself look graceful, mature, or “fine.” She allowed herself to be messy in her writing.

And I’m grateful I used to be that kind of person.

Now I think I’m more closed. More careful. More afraid of being judged. Somewhere along the way, I learned to look okay. To look like I don’t have problems. To not let too much of myself spill out.

I wonder when I started being this way.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy. I’m content with my life. I like remembering that time of my life, but I don’t want to go back.

Still, I do miss that version of me.

The one who wasn’t so scared of being seen.

And maybe writing again is my small way of finding my way back to her.