To The Girl Who Made It Back from Mars

For my 30th birthday, I wrote a letter to the me who survived, so I could finally thrive.

To my beloved 20-year-old self,

I’ve been thinking a lot about you this past year — about everything you’ve been through. The highs. The heartbreaks. The unexpected roads.

Life in your twenties wasn’t what we imagined. It often felt like being swept away by the tide — unwillingly, painfully — but somehow, you still managed to land us somewhere safe. And that’s what I admire most about you: your stubbornness. Your clarity. The way you always knew what you wanted, yet allowed life to shift your path without breaking you.

You understood something few people do: to get to where you belong, you sometimes have to walk blindly through the dark and trust that the light will eventually appear. You never stopped searching for it. And because of you, I learned patience. I learned faith. I learned to believe in better, even when nothing around us looked like hope.

But I also think of how deeply miserable you were, most of the time — and my heart breaks for you.

For the losses. The collapses. The shame you carried that was never yours to hold. For the things that were slowly taken from you without warning — your home, your safety, your dignity, your smile.
I remember how much you cried — until you simply couldn’t cry anymore. The silence after the storm. The numbness. The rage. The way you kept going anyway, barefoot through fire, hiding the flames inside you that no one else could see.

We were robbed of a life we could’ve had — and we were forced to keep going, naked in front of the world, pretending it didn’t hurt. But it did. And no one understood the kind of grief that leaves no funeral, no sympathy, just the quiet expectation to keep moving. And you did. With all that pain strapped to your back, you climbed the hills anyway.

You always said that if someone dropped you on Mars, you'd still find your way home. And God, how I love that about you. Because it’s true. You always made a way. You built little gardens in dark corners, protected that child in you who refused to die — and for the longest time, that was enough. Until lately…

Lately, you’ve just been tired. Not weak — just tired. Tired of building homes in places you were never meant to stay. Tired of surviving. When the world finally went quiet, you stopped fighting it — and started fighting yourself. And now, I know: you're exhausted. And I understand.

I see you. I see all of it.

How you hid under the blankets. The music you escaped into. The sun-soaked days with your friends. The invisible wounds. The days you felt unwanted, unloved, unseen. The broken teeth. The shame. The wildness. The survival.

You fought through it all.

And now, I say this with love:

Thank you. But you can rest now.

You did your part — better than anyone could’ve asked. You carried us through it all. And now, I’m ready to take it from here.

I don’t want to survive anymore. I want to live.

So I release you — with a sadness that you won’t get to dance in the garden or taste the fruits you planted, but I know how proud and happy you would be that it finally grew.
I release you—not because I don’t love you, but because I love you so deeply. And with the heaviest grief and the deepest pride — I set you free.

I’ve got it now.

With all my love,

30-year-old me.