Dear Younger Me

You were better than you thought

A reconnection reminded me my past self deserves more than shame.

I was reflecting today on this idea of the funeral for my past self. I’ve seen it manifested at times through art or in casual speech. People affirming their growth over time by laying to rest past versions of themselves.

I understand the heart of that message. There’s value in creating ceremony around the burial of who you once were but can no longer be.

Recently, I had the pleasure of reconnecting with a friend from my past. We hadn’t spoken in more than a decade, but we’d been friends for two. The separation wasn’t bad blood, just life. Different cities, responsibilities, priorities. Sometimes connections get lost in the shuffle. Proximity and obligation reorder who and what gets our time.

So when he reached out, it felt like a small gift: a mirror held up to who I was all those years ago. What he lent me, without even meaning to, was confidence. Despite not having spoken in a decade, I could hear certainty in his voice: that when he found me again, he’d find me in a place of integrity, maturity, and mutual respect.

It made me pause.

Who must he have encountered all those years ago to give him that kind of assurance? What part of me endured, beneath the mistakes and stumbles, to leave that kind of impression?

I’ve come to believe that there’s an underlying self that persists over time. When I look back, I often focus on the flawed parts of me that remain. But the truth is, there seems to be a beautiful, enduring consistency that others trust, that people have come to know and rely upon.

I don’t honor her often.

I usually imagine her entombed under my embarrassment.

Maybe what she deserves isn’t a funeral, but recognition. Not a headstone, but a thank-you card.

Thank you for keeping me alive in someone’s memory with grace.

This reconnection reminded me that she was more than her flaws. She was steady enough, bright enough, trustworthy enough, that years later someone could reach out with confidence that I would still be here, still be me.

So maybe what’s needed isn’t a eulogy, but a shout-out.

Dear younger me: you were better than you thought.

And some remember.

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Killer Instinct is a cultural dispatch on Black diasporic life and sharp media critique. I host a live Internet radio show called Killer Frequency every Friday at 1pm AST—join me. Support, subscribe, and stay sharp 🗡.