Don’t Forget Her

There was a woman you knew before life got so complicated.

She dreamed big.

She laughed without wondering who was watching.

She danced in the rain.

She imagined a future without first calculating how much it would cost, how long it would take, or who might be disappointed by her choices.

She wanted things simply because they made her heart come alive.

And then life happened.

Not all at once.

That would have been easier to notice.

It happened slowly.

A responsibility here.

A disappointment there.

A relationship that required more of her than she expected.

Children who needed her.

Parents who began needing her too.

Bills.

Work.

Heartbreak.

Loss.

Survival.

And somewhere along the way, she started putting pieces of herself on the back burner.

Not because they weren’t important.

Because everything else seemed more urgent.

She told herself, I’ll get back to that.

I’ll travel later.

I’ll write later.

I’ll start the business later.

I’ll take the class later.

I’ll wear that dress when I lose the weight.

I’ll take the picture when I feel better about myself.

I’ll do something just for me when everybody else is okay.

Later.

Later.

Later.

And sometimes later becomes years.

Until one day you look in the mirror and realize you recognize the woman looking back at you…

but you don’t completely remember her.

The woman you were before you became everything everybody needed.

Don’t forget her.

Don’t forget the girl who believed something extraordinary might happen with her life.

Don’t forget what made her laugh.

Don’t forget what she wanted before the world started telling her what was practical.

Don’t forget the music she loved.

The places she wanted to see.

The things she wanted to create.

The parts of herself she quieted because there simply wasn’t enough room for them at the time.

She wasn’t foolish.

She wasn’t selfish.

She wasn’t unrealistic.

She was alive.

And perhaps becoming whole isn’t always about becoming someone new.

Maybe sometimes healing is going back for the woman you had to leave behind while you were busy surviving.

Not because you need to become her again.

You can’t.

She didn’t know what you know now.

She hadn’t survived what you’ve survived.

She hadn’t buried anything.

She hadn’t had her heart broken in quite the same places.

She hadn’t learned how expensive peace can be—or how priceless it becomes once you find it.

You are not supposed to go backward.

But you can reach backward.

You can take her dreams by the hand and introduce them to the woman you’ve become.

Maybe some of those dreams no longer fit.

That’s okay.

But maybe some of them have been waiting patiently for you.

Maybe the book still needs to be written.

Maybe the trip still needs to be taken.

Maybe the business still deserves a chance.

Maybe you still want to dance in the rain.

And maybe there are things she wanted that you now have the courage, wisdom, resources, or freedom to finally pursue.

We spend so much time mourning our younger selves because we think she had something we’ve lost.

But what if she was carrying something for us?

A dream.

A little courage.

A little wonder.

A reminder of who we were before fear became so convincing.

Maybe she didn’t disappear.

Maybe she simply stepped aside while you did what you had to do.

While you raised the children.

While you built the career.

While you cared for people.

While you survived things you never imagined you’d have to survive.

She waited.

And now, perhaps, she’s asking:

Do you remember me?

Tell her yes.

Tell her you remember.

Tell her some things didn’t happen the way she imagined.

Tell her life was harder than either of you expected.

Tell her you had to become strong.

Tell her you lost some things.

Tell her you found some things too.

And then tell her something she may have waited years to hear:

We still have time.

Because you don’t honor the woman you’ve become by forgetting the woman who dreamed you here.

So go back for her.

Not to live in yesterday.

Not to recreate a life that no longer exists.

But to retrieve whatever part of yourself you left there.

Bring her wonder with you.

Bring her courage.

Bring the dream she refused to let die.

And this time…

let the woman you’ve become help the woman you once were finish what.