Every Version of Me

Proof of Becoming

Imagine every version of you, standing in a line, from the very youngest version you recollect to the you of just yesterday.

Sit with this image.

I see a version of me, little and stout, with curly hair and flushed cheeks. Her sleeves are too long, and her feelings are “too tender.” She needs, and she needs, and she doesn’t know yet how dangerous a thing it is to need.

There is the version of me, trying desperately to find her identity, gapped and bucked front teeth, wearing an oversized t-shirt, her Jesus fish chain wallet hanging from the back of her baggy jeans.

The me who discovered the compliments and approval of a body decreasing in size. That same me, trying desperately not to be afraid of her own development, and was a terrible driver.

The me that failed freshmen biology twice before giving up and changing my major.

The me that navigated depression. Well, Wellbutrin and I did that one together.

The version that found Michael. Then lost him. Then found him again.

The me that spent the first scary night all alone in my ground-level one-bedroom apartment. The same apartment where I dreamt up my food blog and kept a stool handy to quickly reach the smoke detector I set off nearly every time I cooked.

The version of me I meet in 8 filled journals. All prayer and response, the hopes and dreams of my early emergence visible on each page.

The me that secured my dream job, bought my own home, and found Jeffrey. The me that knew I had to leave that job, rent out that home, and find Jeffrey a sister.

There’s the me that’s becoming. Reiki running through my hands, and courage in my eyes. The version of me that somehow isn’t anxious about the same things anymore. I don’t worry about the same things, and most of what used to disturb me has become my teacher.

Loss? Teach me.

Insecurity? Teach me.

Silver strands of hair? Teach me.

If I could say anything to any of these past versions, it would all be the same message:

“You are exactly as you need to be, in every single way. Things are going to get harder and more complicated, but you are going to become so much wiser, braver, bolder, and effective. Do not resist your own becoming. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I see them still, all of them, standing in that long line. Some shifting on their feet, some looking to me for answers, some still unaware I’m watching. I step forward now, moving toward the future self who waits with open hands, quietly gathering all that I will need.

We are not separate from our former selves, and we are not beholden to them either. We carry them with us, not as burdens, but as proof of our becoming.

Close your eyes and imagine them—all the versions of you, standing in a line. The child, the dreamer, the one who felt lost, the one who felt found. See them. Acknowledge them. Thank them.

What would you say to the you of yesterday? What would your future self say to you now?

You are exactly as you need to be. In every single way.

Step forward. Keep becoming.