When You Miss the Version of You That Didn’t Know Better
You’ve grown. You see things more clearly. But part of you still misses who you were before you knew what you know now. This is what it means to grieve an earlier version of yourself, one that felt lighter, even if she was wrong.
When You Miss the Version of You That Didn’t Know Better
(And Why Growth Doesn’t Always Feel Like Relief)
You know more now.
You’ve named the pattern.
You’ve said the hard things.
You’ve stepped away from people, places, and roles that once defined you.
You’ve done the work.
But some days — quietly, almost shamefully — you miss the version of you that didn’t know better.
The one who trusted easily.
Who believed what they told her.
Who made choices from hope instead of calculation.
Not because she had it figured out.
But because she hadn’t yet seen the things that taught you to doubt.
You Didn’t Expect Growth to Feel This Lonely
You thought clarity would bring relief.
That walking away from what hurt you would be empowering.
And it was.
It is.
But it also came with distance.
Distance from the people who knew the older version of you.
Distance from the simplicity you can’t get back.
Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
Once you learn to protect yourself, you can’t go back to the version of you who didn’t think she needed protecting.
That version is gone.
And you miss her.
Even if she was naive.
It’s Okay to Grieve Someone You Used to Be
We talk about grief in terms of loss—
people, relationships, endings.
But the loss of a former self
is its own kind of ache.
You see a photo from a few years ago and remember what it felt like to not know what you know now.
You hear an old song and feel her in your chest—the girl who danced to this before the cracks started showing.
You miss how light she was.
How she moved without hesitation.
How she tried, even when it didn’t make sense.
She wasn’t foolish.
She was just… softer.
And softer was easier, sometimes.
Wisdom Often Arrives With a Cost
Growth isn’t always forward motion.
Sometimes it’s subtraction.
Of illusions.
Of comfort.
Of the stories you used to tell yourself to survive.
And while you wouldn’t trade the insight—
not really—
you still feel the weight of it.
Because with every truth you uncover,
something is taken.
An innocence.
A trust.
A version of ease you didn’t know you were living in until it left.
That doesn’t mean the growth was wrong.
It means it mattered.
And things that matter leave marks.
You Don’t Have to Love Every Part of the Process
You’re allowed to feel proud and heartbroken at the same time.
To know you’re better off and still miss who you were.
To look back with tenderness, not judgment.
She wasn’t weak.
She was working with what she had.
She was building something. Maybe for someone else. Maybe for survival.
But she brought you here.
You’re not here despite her.
You’re here because of her.
And it’s okay to carry her gently as you keep becoming someone else.
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