A love letter to my forgotten self — the wise little girl I once was and am slowly becoming again.

There was a time — not too long ago — when I forgot who I was.

Not just the surface details, but the sacred essence that once made my soul so radiant. I forgot my depth, my wonder, my resilience. I forgot the girl who used to walk through life with a heart wide open to the mysteries of the universe — the one who read books not for grades or praise, but because they felt like home. I forgot the part of me who found joy not in toys or trends, but in questions too big for her age — questions that most adults never dare to ask.

I didn’t care for teddy bears or Barbie dolls the way other girls did. My mother would gently ask me if I wanted one, trying to give me what she thought every little girl desired. But I would shake my head. What I truly longed for couldn’t be held in plastic or plush. What I craved was depth — even then, even as a child.

Instead, I spent my time wrapped in stories. Comic books, picture books, and thick collections titled “10,000 Questions About the Universe” fascinated me more than anything else. I would sit on the floor, flipping through pages I barely understood, letting their wonder seep into my bones. They taught me how to ask — how to seek, how to think beyond what I was told, how to become a free and untamed mind in a world that wanted children, especially girls, to stay small and quiet.

By the time I was four or five, I had already memorized a notebook full of Vietnamese idioms my grandmother taught me — each one a sacred pearl passed from her hands into my soul. While other children ran through the streets shouting slang or teasing each other, I was learning to speak with grace. With dignity. My grandmother taught me that though words cannot be bought with money, they are priceless — they are what shape your spirit and how the world will listen when you speak.

While other girls my age were learning one or two children’s poems, I had already devoured full books. I remember how my parents bought me the complete versions, and I’d curl up with them like they were treasures. I didn’t just read — I understood. I summarized. I reflected. And when I spoke to my mother about what I’d read, I spoke like a little philosopher in a child’s body.

Soon, my mother recognized something rare in me. She began encouraging me to read even more — books far beyond my years. The Call of the Wild by Jack London. Nobody’s Boy. Wuthering Heights. The Count of Monte Cristo. I read them all. And when my literature teacher found out, she was stunned. I had traveled through the pages of lifetimes before most children had learned to spell “novel.”

And then… somehow, I drifted away from that girl.

I don’t remember the exact moment it happened — maybe it was gradual. Maybe life, expectations, loneliness, and the fast pace of growing up pulled me from her hand. I stopped feeding my soul with the literature that once ignited me. I let the noise of the world replace the symphonies of classical music that used to move me to tears. I started filling my mind with the equivalent of fast food — hollow dramas, superficial trends, stories without soul. I began living like a shell of myself.

But what hurt the most wasn’t what I consumed — it was what I ignored.

I stopped listening to her — my inner child. The soft, wise voice who used to sit beside me when I read, whispering insights I couldn’t explain at the time. The one who sat with me in solitude so I never felt alone. The one who was always there, asking me to feel, to dream, to love with abandon.

For years, I didn’t know I had abandoned her. I didn’t realize I had cut myself off from the deepest well of wisdom I carried — the little girl who once knew exactly who she was.

But now… now, I am finding her again.

Through healing, through tears, through silence — I feel her returning. She isn’t bitter that I left. She isn’t angry. She’s just waiting — open-hearted, forgiving, full of life and emotion and depth. And every time I choose to read again, to reflect again, to sit in the quiet and let my soul speak — I feel her hand in mine.

And I realize now: she was never really gone. I just stopped believing I was worthy of her presence.

So here I am — writing, remembering, returning. Letting her know: I see you. I miss you. I need you. You are not a phase I outgrew. You are the root of everything beautiful I still long to become.

This is how I heal.

This is how I come home to myself.