There was a day I realized I wasn’t walking alone anymore.

Not because someone showed up beside me—

but because I did.

The girl I thought I left behind…

the version of me who used to twirl in daydreams,

believe in love letters from the stars,

and wear invisible crowns made of imagination—

she came back.

And so did the quiet, divine presence that had been watching me all along.

The one who knew who I really was,

even when I forgot.

That was the day we began again.

Together.

For a long time, I lived in a blur—

following paths not meant for me,

trying to be “realistic,”

trying to be “strong,”

trying not to feel so much.

I lived in the shadows of shoulds and silence.

And even in that fog,

I know now…

my inner child never left.

She whispered through moments of wonder I dismissed.

She cried in corners I didn’t look at.

And when I pushed her away to grow up,

she stayed anyway—waiting, hoping, forgiving.

There was pain between us.

Wounds unspoken.

I forgot how to be gentle with myself.

I silenced her dreams when they didn’t fit the mold.

I told her we had to survive, not feel.

I buried her softness, her questions, her sparkle—

and called it “adulthood.”

She cried for me in secret.

Not loudly.

Just a soft ache,

a tremble in my chest I couldn’t name.

All she wanted was to be seen.

All she wanted was for me to come back.

And I did.

But not quickly.

First, there was the loneliness—

not of being alone, but of being disconnected.

From purpose.

From joy.

From self.

That solitude became a lantern.

It burned quietly, like a flicker in the dark.

And in that stillness,

without distraction,

I heard her.

Faint at first.

Like a memory half-awake.

But she was there.

And for the first time in years,

I didn’t run from her.

I sat with her.

I held her.

Listened.

Apologized.

For every time I didn’t believe her.

For every dream I left behind.

For every moment I told her to be small, to be quiet, to “grow up.”

And I told her she could dream again.

That I wouldn’t leave her this time.

That her voice is safe with me now.

Something softened in me after that.

I cried, not from sadness, but from relief.

Because I realized: I didn’t lose her.

I only forgot how to hear her.

And then, another voice returned.

Not a whisper, but a knowing.

My highest self.

The one who had watched, waited, guided—

not with pressure,

but with patience.

She had always been there,

gently lighting signs on the path I couldn’t yet recognize.

She never scolded me for being lost.

She just held space—

until I was ready to come home.

Home to her.

Home to the little girl.

Home to me.

Now, something beautiful lives inside me.

Not perfection,

but harmony.

The girl plays.

I nurture.

And my higher self smiles.

We are no longer fragments—

we are a family within myself.

The truest kind of reunion.

One that required no one else’s permission.

One that didn’t need a stage or celebration.

Just stillness.

And a promise to never leave myself again.

And now, I see her clearly—

my future self.

She stands radiant in her becoming.

She carries softness like gold,

wisdom like water,

and joy like light.

And she says to me,

with a voice that sounds like love,

“You made it.

You didn’t lose the child—

you became the woman she always dreamed of being.”

This is the story of how I came home.

Not by changing who I was,

but by remembering who I’ve always been.

Now, when I walk, I walk with them.

All of them.

The dreamer.

The nurturer.

The guide.

From three, we became one.

And this—this is how we shine.

Together.