Don’t You Remember Me?

Don’t You Remember Me?

Don’t you remember me? The one you used to love so much. You took me everywhere, introduced me to new people. You made me feel alive. You weren’t afraid to walk into any room and belong.

Tell me you remember me. Tell me you’re still there. I never left your side. Why did you shut me out? You don’t speak anymore. You’ve become avoidant. I couldn’t believe it when I felt the shift… You were the source, the blueprint. How did they get to us? What happened to you?

You used to want more. You never ran. You entered every door without fear or shame. Even with shaky hands, you reached. You did things confidently. You did things scared—but you did them. You knew that was where true healing began, where true love for yourself lived: on the other side of fear. And after you did it, you laughed at how it wasn’t scary at all. You learned nothing is truly hard—it’s just unfamiliar.

And the voices in your head? You always knew they were liars. Remember when you were three, riding in the car, shouting, “They’re liars! They’re liars!” When they asked what you meant, you said, “The voices. The people. They lie.” They laughed it off, but you knew.

People lie. They’re afraid of the truth. They’re afraid of being themselves. And the voices—they’re the worst. They echo so loudly, they can manipulate you if you’re not careful. You knew this. And yet… you still let them get to you. You believed them.

But you were the girl who believed anything was possible. I was love. I was joy. I was truth. I danced in my own light and didn’t care who was watching.

Somewhere along the way, you let them dim me. You let them step all over me when I was meant to lead, when my wings could have flown higher alone. You caved. You listened to their voices and silenced mine. How? I thought you knew I always loved you. I thought you knew I was the one who understood you best.

I know. In our culture, as a woman, curiosity was inappropriate. Joy was disrespectful. And having a dream—that was for men.

You knew that wasn’t true. You knew being yourself was the greatest love of all. And still—you let them live for you? You knew nobody’s voice mattered but yours, even your mother’s… and you still listened.

We were never too much—the world was too small. We only needed patience. We would have found our people: the ones who love without explanation, who understand without asking, who light up when we enter.

Do you remember how powerful you felt before the world tried to convince you you were wrong?

How you held that fire in your chest, not yet knowing what to do with it, but certain it was yours?

I was there. I remember.

And I kept waiting for you to fight for me.

Instead, you adapted. You blended. You softened.

People told you, You’re so adaptable. You’re so good with people. You can enter any room.

They didn’t know why.

You grew up with thirteen siblings—so many needs, so many preferences.

Your parents stretched themselves thin, showing up in a hundred different ways.

And you, not wanting to burden them, simply adapted.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having. It’s fine. We can go there.”

You gave yourself away piece by piece.

Do you remember the dreams we had?

The way our heart raced at the thought of being seen, really seen?

We wanted so much, but you tucked it away.

You told yourself it was safer to shrink.

That smallness was love.

But don’t you remember—

The real love was in being ourselves.

The real power was in refusing to fold.

You traded us for their approval.

But their approval was never enough, was it?

Because deep down, you felt me kicking.

You heard me whispering in the quiet moments:

This isn’t it. This isn’t who we are. Don’t you remember me?

You were built for more. You were built to lead. You were built to love without fear. So why did you stop? Why did you forget me?

Did something happen to our body? Are you still trying to protect me from something? I know we’ve been through trauma. I know there are parts of me you can’t look at without breaking. But I am not the enemy. I am here to love you, to heal with you. To remind you how amazing you are, how amazing you’ve always been.

Did that really have to change the core of who we are? Because deep down, this version of you isn’t happy either. You hurt more when you silence me. Every time you bury me, you bury yourself too.

Do you remember the brunch spot? The pancakes you craved so badly you went alone. No makeup. Just you. People stared, but you didn’t care. You ate. You laughed to yourself. You walked out lighter than you arrived. That was you—choosing yourself before the world told you it was brave.

Do you remember swinging under the stars, lost in books for hours, waking to the sunrise and feeling alive? Do you remember train rides where getting lost became adventure, strangers became friends, stories and laughter filled the hours? Do you remember the airport flood, when instead of panicking, you fed a hungry woman, made friends, shared moments that became memory? That was always you. That was always us.

But now… you crave darkness instead of light. You avoid everyone. You walk past strangers without a smile. You neglected me. And now your soul is gone.

Break the silence. Please. At least for yourself. You’ve seen what being quiet has done—your brain chemistry shifting, you don’t even recognize me anymore. I’m your inner child. Look at me. Remember me. I am still here, waiting for you to bring me home.

When people tell you to be quiet long enough, you forget how to speak. You forget how to breathe.

They killed me while I was still alive.

Our soul died long ago.

And now I wander the world, just a body.

I’m sorry I failed you.

I couldn’t save us this time.