To My younger Self

I woke up today feeling a lot today. Motherhood doesn’t leave much time for sitting around contemplating what might be under the surface between diaper changes, wake windows, and nursing. Nevertheless, I found myself needing a few minutes to write. The moment I was able to get my daughter, Manija, down for. a nap and be with myself, a wall of grief hit me. It wasn’t the sort of grief that makes you wish you were living a different life, but one that forces you to pay homage to something. I found myself grieving my younger self, not necessarily wanting her back, but lamenting on what it was like to be her and how different my experience is now. I think this is something all mothers or women who have undergone some sort of initiation can relate to. It is proof that two things can be true at once: satisfaction and joy for who you have become alongside with grief of who you used to be.

Dear Younger Self,

Oh, how I miss you some days. I’m overjoyed with this new life, but I do long for the days we spent together in deep contemplation and exploration of the Universe. It *is* beautiful over here, though. Motherhood is endless moments reminding us that life is about Love—and all Love really is, is right action: realigning yourself every second to be present and attuned to the little being you’ve been entrusted with. There are challenging moments, but what you feel when their little eyes glance back at you seems to erase the hardest ones.  

Instead of days filled with hiking, yoga, and learning to trust yourself, they are now filled with tiny hands and toothless smiles, with the sweetest hint of tender milk breath—a smell that fills your heart more than one could ever imagine.

I am grateful for you and reminded of you all the time now—all the times you spent trying to understand your deepest workings and the endless pursuit you were on to become the best version of yourself. All those tools sure come in handy now, you know? I even tried the nervous system tapping on my daughter the other night when she wouldn’t fall asleep. Because of you, I feel I can be who I want to be for her. It really was the greatest gift you ever gave me. I miss you.

It’s strange—I almost feel guilty writing this to you. It feels like we are living two parallel existences, and I don’t want this letter to slow you down, even though I know that’s impossible. Sometimes it felt like God Himself couldn’t even slow you down. I know somewhere in the ethers you still exist, and you are busy rewriting the story of what it means to be truly free.  

In moments when motherhood feels a bit daunting, I tune into you. Whenever I do, you are always frolicking in nature or dancing your heart out. Free. I see you as a ball of light—a comet on her way to something great, lighting anything in her path on fire. I see you lying on the desert floor, where your heart felt held by a mother for the first time. I know you’re still in Arizona, where you feel home is—because it held and healed you. Sometimes I miss the desert too. But I know it’s not meant for me now—it’s meant for you. That’s why I left you there, safe in the boundless red rock and dirt that surrounds you. I feel the warm, dry air on your sun-kissed skin and your blonde curls blowing in the breeze. You still live in me.

Sometimes I look at the life you lived and wonder how you did it. How you walked through fire so fearlessly—how there was no feeling too great for you to feel if it meant freedom or a new life. How every heartbreak, big or small, was a portal into the next version of your becoming. I see how you were willing to try absolutely anything it took to claim the life you knew you were worthy of.  

I see you walking into all your therapy sessions, crying in your car, journaling under the moon. I see you drinking your coffee and homemade green juice outside at sunrise, trying to ground yourself with bare feet on the soft earth. Everything was your responsibility, and there was no feat too great for you. You refused to be a victim to anything—especially life itself. You were determined to be free, and determined to be God’s.

I see all your moments screaming, crying, and shaking in the bathtub. I also see the wisdom that came from holding yourself in those trying moments. You did it, Margi. It was all worth it. I see how the gift of desperation was not one you were going to squander. Not only were you going to transform your own life, but you were going to enjoy the process of it—like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. I think it’s no coincidence that was the name of the city itself that you lived in.

I can see every heart you touched—all the women you took on your rising with you. All the women’s circles, all the sisterhood. You built a tribe. My heart feels like I never had time to really grieve the loss that happened in the transition from you to me, but I find solace knowing that you are still there, living it. A moment frozen in time.

I can see how much you wanted to be enough for yourself—how you didn’t want to crave a man’s love. You really did try so hard, and in fact, you really *did* self-partner, just as all the podcasts told you to. Karma is just karma. It feels so clear now, being on the other side. I know you always felt like your efforts to stay single or heal your wounds so you’d attract the right one when it was time were to no avail—but trust me, they weren’t.

You don’t know it, but you never actually wanted a man—you wanted a daughter. You felt my sweet little Manija in your bones. I know all the dreams you had of her, how when things got really hard or it felt like facing yourself was too much, you would talk to your unborn daughter. She’s worth it. I can tell you that now—all those moments were worth it.

That first relationship—I know you know the one—although the greatest pain you ever faced, was what broke your heart so completely that the whole world fell. It was everything you prayed for. Every wound you ever experienced was somehow encapsulated in that relationship, and it was a portal into your heart. It healed you. You healed you. You chose to suck every drop out of the lessons it was trying to teach you. No stone left unturned. All in pursuit of your freedom.

I can see you driving away from your first date with the next one, looking in the rearview mirror and asking yourself, *“Margi, are you ready to give all this up and start your new life?”* You knew on some level that he would be the catalyst for the biggest shift you’d ever experience. You were happy, too—finally at peace with who you had become. You knew that if you did the dance with him, there was no turning back. You didn’t know why or what that meant, but you knew it was time, so you did it.  

Honey, forgive yourself. You had no say in the matter. It was destined to be. No escaping it. He was going to be the father of the daughter you had carried with you your whole life. You thought it was him—that *he* was what you had been “manifesting”—but it wasn’t. It was her.

He seemed perfect, I know. But God has a funny way of using our desires for His plan. He seemed like the proof that you had healed yourself enough to be ready for a great love—and you were. But it wasn’t him. That relationship went how it was supposed to, and it launched you into me, your next version.  

You fell in love and thought he was what you had wanted your whole life. You looked into his eyes one day and said you finally felt home in a person. It wasn’t him you were seeing. It was what he would give you—your daughter. So you did what you thought was next: got engaged, got pregnant. You were doing your best. He turned out to be a completely different person than you thought.  

Forgive yourself. You didn’t know.

All that matters is what you did next. You ended life as you knew it. You left. You left your life, your job, your relationship, your friends, the sisterhood you created—everything. But most of all, you left the desert—what you love most. You did what most women in your situation would never do.  

My dear, I sit here in peace with our daughter now, endlessly grateful for your fearlessness. Your unique brand of rebellion. Your rebellion against giving up or surrendering to anything less than what you deserve. You were willing to sacrifice yourself for the version of us now—and for Manija. Thank you. I hold so much gratitude for you.

That is why I pray you are still alive somewhere, living your life, relishing the well-earned happiness you created. I miss you. I sometimes long for the days I got to walk this Earth as you. But I am happy now.  

Enjoy your prize—the feeling of being truly free.