Reading my old journals felt like rona dhonaa

 I read my old journals today.

And for a moment, it felt like I was reading someone else’s diary.

Not because I didn’t recognise the handwriting ....

but because I didn’t recognise her.

She was louder. Happier in a way that didn’t need a reason.

She laughed easily, spoke without rehearsing in her head, showed up without worrying how much space she was taking.

She danced. She sang. She raised her hand.

She existed without apologising.

And I sat there thinking ...

When did I stop being her?

It’s strange how memory works.

How you can miss a version of yourself the same way you miss a person.

How nostalgia doesn’t always hurt because of what you lost .... but because of who you were before you learned certain truths too early.

There was a time when joy came naturally to me.

Not the kind of happiness that comes and goes like dopamine hits ....but real joy.

The kind that stays.

The kind that doesn’t ask for validation.

And then life happened.

Bullying.

Judgement.

Comments about appearance. Presence.

Little sentences that didn’t look dangerous at first .... but slowly rewired how I saw myself.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that love had conditions.

That being liked meant being palatable.

That existing freely was risky.

That confidence had to be earned by becoming “perfect.”

And without realising it, I started shrinking.

I stopped showing up fully.

I started editing myself.

I learned to watch instead of participate.

To smile carefully.

To measure my worth through how others responded to me.

The loud girl became quiet.

The confident girl became cautious.

The joyful girl became hyper-aware.

And now, when I read those journals, it scares me 

not because she existed,

but because I’m afraid I lost her forever.

But here’s the truth I’m slowly learning to sit with...

Maybe

The confidence didn’t die.

It just got tired.

The joy didn’t vanish.

It learned to be careful.

And maybe right now, I’m not meant to be her again ....

maybe I’m meant to become someone gentler.

Someone who knows pain.

Someone who understands that perfection was never the entry ticket to love.

Some days, it still aches.

I still ask, Why did this have to happen?

Why did becoming aware cost me my ease?

But maybe growing isn’t about going back.

Maybe it’s about learning how to hold every version of yourself with compassion ....

even the quiet one.

Even the tired one.

Even the one who’s still healing.

I don’t want to rush myself into becoming the old me again.

I just want to stop being cruel to the present me.

Because she survived things the old me never had to.

And that counts for something ig......