I think about her sometimes — the version of me I haven’t met yet.
She’s a little more sure of herself. Her hands don’t shake when she speaks up. She laughs louder. She forgives faster. She walks into rooms without shrinking.
She still gets scared, I imagine. But she doesn’t let it stop her.
I don’t know exactly how I’ll become her — but I trust that every time I rest instead of overworking, speak the truth even when it trembles, or give myself permission to begin again… I’m stepping closer.
And maybe she’s already rooting for me — whispering, “You’re almost here.”
