A Lot of What If, A Lot of Forgive

for all the versions of me that never happened

There are nights when I lie awake thinking about every version of me that never got the chance to exist. The girl who was supposed to be more disciplined. More talented. More consistent. Less afraid. The girl who would have answered messages on time, finished her plans, fixed her sleep schedule, saved more money, loved herself correctly, and somehow figured life out before everyone else did. Sometimes I grieve people who are still alive. Sometimes I grieve places I never went to. But most of the time, I grieve myself. Not because I disappeared. But because I almost became someone else so many times.

A lot of my life has been built from “almost.” Almost brave enough. Almost healed enough. Almost ready. Almost there. And maybe that’s why my mind keeps collecting what ifs, like receipts I never asked for. What if I tried harder? What if I started earlier? What if I stopped being scared? What if I wasn’t this tired all the time? What if I didn’t ruin good things by overthinking them? What if I was born with a lighter heart? I think people underestimate how exhausting it is to carry disappointment quietly. To wake up every day inside a life that doesn’t look anything like the one you imagined for yourself when you were younger. Because younger me really believed things would happen by now.

I thought I would become somebody softer. Somebody prettier. Somebody successful in a way people could recognize immediately.

I thought healing would be linear. I thought loneliness would eventually get embarrassed and leave me alone. Instead, life kept moving while I stayed emotionally stuck in the same place, replaying old mistakes like they were movies I secretly hoped would end differently the second time. There’s a specific type of sadness that comes from realizing nobody is coming to save you from yourself. Not your friends. Not love. Not time. Not even the version of you that only exists inside your imagination. Just you. Only you. And honestly, that realization made me angry for a while. I was angry at myself for wasting potential. Angry for procrastinating dreams until they expired. Angry because I knew exactly what I wanted yet somehow still stood still. Angry because some people run toward life while I keep hesitating at the starting line like I need permission to begin existing. But eventually, anger gets tired too.

And after enough nights spent hating myself, I realized something terrifying. I was becoming the cruelest thing that had ever happened to me. So I started trying to forgive myself. Not in a beautiful cinematic way. Not in a “love yourself” Pinterest quote kind of way. I mean real forgiveness. Ugly forgiveness. The kind that hurts because you have to admit you were both the victim and the person holding the knife. I had to forgive myself for not becoming who I promised I would be at sixteen. For surviving instead of thriving. For choosing comfort over risk. For letting fear dress itself up as perfectionism. For all the days I disappeared from people because I could not even stand being around myself.

And maybe forgiveness is not one grand moment. Maybe it’s just waking up and deciding not to punish yourself for being human again. Maybe healing is smaller than we think. Maybe healing is answering one text. Drinking water before coffee. Opening the curtains. Applying for the thing even when you are convinced you are not enough. Maybe healing is looking at your reflection without immediately apologizing for it. I still have a lot of what ifs. I still wonder who I could have been if life had unfolded differently. If my mind was quieter. If my heart was easier to carry. If I had more courage and less fear pretending to be logic. But lately, I’ve been trying to believe that maybe there is still time. Time to become someone I recognize. Time to create a life that does not feel borrowed. Time to stop romanticizing the person I could have been and start caring for the person I already am. Because maybe I am not unfinished. Maybe I am just becoming very slowly. And maybe that deserves compassion too. So here I am. A lot of what if. A lot of forgive.