Some versions of you deserve to be forgotten

I didn’t grow into a better version of myself — I survived the one that was slowly killing me.

There is a version of me that almost destroyed me, and no one really talks about that part of growth. It was the version that woke up anxious every morning, checked the phone like it controlled self-worth, and compared life to people who only shared their best moments.

 It was believed the twenties were a deadline where success, love, and confidence were supposed to magically appear, and every time life didn’t match that timeline, it turned the disappointment inward. It stayed in situations that drained energy because being alone felt like failure, accepted the bare minimum because something felt better than nothing, and chased people who never chose it fully. Anxiety was mistaken for ambition, burnout for progress, and attachment for love. 

That version lived in exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix, replaying conversations late into the night, blaming itself for endings that were never its fault, and carrying emotional weight that slowly became normal. Some nights were spent crying quietly, some mornings were spent staring in the mirror, trying to recognise who had been lost along the way. It wasn’t weakness that kept that version stuck; it was survival. 

But survival slowly makes you smaller, sharper, more afraid to rest, more afraid to need, more afraid to walk away. The moment healing started wasn’t dramatic; it was just a tired realisation that this life couldn’t continue like this. That’s when I began forgetting that version of myself, the one that begged for clarity, stayed through pain, and believed suffering meant strength. I stopped chasing validation, stopped explaining myself into exhaustion, stopped bleeding for people who wouldn’t even bruise for me. 

Healing felt lonely before it felt peaceful, but the quiet was safer than the chaos. Slowly, a new version of me emerged, one that walks away without guilt, chooses peace over proving, and understands that boundaries are not cruelty, they are self-respect. I don’t miss who I was when I was hurting, but I respect that version for surviving seasons that almost broke me. Some versions of you are built in trauma, and they can be strong without being permanent. 

Growth isn’t about carrying every past self forward; it’s about releasing the ones that only knew how to endure. The real transformation isn’t becoming louder, richer, or perfect; it’s no longer tolerating what once destroyed you. 

And sometimes the most powerful healing is letting old versions of yourself die so the real you can finally live.

yellow thoughts💛

The Pressure to Have Life Figured Out in Your 20s

The Pressure to Have Life Figured Out in Your 20s

It usually starts with a simple question.

“So… what are you doing these days?”

You smile before answering. Not because you’re excited, but because you need a second to decide which version of the truth sounds acceptable. The honest one feels too messy. Too uncertain. So you choose the cleaner answer. The one that sounds like you’re going somewhere, even if you’re not sure where.

Everyone around you is moving forward. One friend talks about promotions. Another mentions wedding plans. Someone else just moved to a new city and sounds confident, settled, and certain. You nod, listen, congratulate them, and wonder why your own life feels like it’s paused at a crossroads you can’t name.

At night, when the noise fades, the questions get louder.

You think about the path you chose and the ones you didn’t. You wonder if you stayed because you wanted to, or because leaving felt too risky. You open social media without thinking and immediately regret it. Another milestone. Another reminder that time is passing, and you still don’t have a clear plan.

You tell yourself you’re running out of time.

In your twenties, everything feels like it matters more than it should. Every decision feels permanent. You’re not just choosing a job, you’re choosing who you’re allowed to become. You’re not just ending a relationship, you’re questioning whether you failed at something you were supposed to get right by now.

No one tells you how heavy that is to carry.

You remember being younger, when the future felt open. When not knowing was exciting instead of terrifying. Somewhere along the way, uncertainty stopped being curiosity and started feeling like a flaw.

People say things like, “You’ll figure it out,” but they don’t tell you how. They don’t tell you what to do when you wake up with a tight chest and the feeling that you’re falling behind a race you never agreed to run.

So you try to act like an adult. You choose stability over interest. Certainty over curiosity. You stay where you are because at least it looks like progress. You convince yourself that discomfort is normal, that everyone feels this way, that this is just how life works.

But some part of you knows the difference between growing pains and quiet unhappiness.

You start to notice it in small moments. How Sunday evenings feel heavy. How do you feel drained by things that once excited you? How you keep waiting for clarity to arrive, like one day you’ll wake up and suddenly feel confident about your direction.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, life keeps asking you to move forward anyway.

And slowly, you realise something no one ever said out loud: most people in their twenties are guessing. They’re choosing the best option they can with the information they have. They’re scared too. They just learned how to hide it better.

You’re not behind. You’re just aware.

Aware that life isn’t meant to be figured out all at once. Aware that forcing answers too early can cost you years. Aware that growth doesn’t always look impressive from the outside.

One day, maybe not soon, but eventually, you’ll look back at this version of yourself, the one who felt lost, pressured, and uncertain, and you’ll understand. This wasn’t wasted time. This was the part where you learned how to listen to yourself. Where you questioned what success really meant. Where you stopped blindly following timelines that didn’t fit.

Your twenties aren’t a straight road. They’re a series of turns, pauses, and wrong directions that quietly teach you who you are.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe you’re not meant to have life figured out right now.

Maybe you’re just meant to live it, confused, learning, becoming one uncertain step at a time.

yellow thoughts💛