There are days I look at old pictures of myself and think, God, I miss her.
I miss the girl who laughed without having to remind herself how. The girl who made plans without wondering if her body would cooperate. The girl who dreamed big without immediately following those dreams with a list of all the things that could go wrong.
I miss the version of me who didn’t have to think so damn hard about simply existing.
And lately, in some of the darkest depths of my struggles, I’ve found myself whispering something that feels almost like a prayer. . .
I want me back.
I found an old picture of a girl I used to know,
God, what I wouldn’t give to feel the way she did so long ago.
Before the world took pieces of her she didn’t know she’d lose,
Before every damn day felt like a battle she didn’t choose.
I miss the girl who laughed so hard she couldn’t catch her breath,
Before she learned that grief could come from much more than just death.
Before she buried dreams, a marriage, and a life she thought she’d keep,
Before her mind became a battlefield that robbed her of her sleep.
I want me back. . . The girl who dreamed without a second thought,
Before she learned that some battles will inevitably be lost.
The girl who made plans without wondering if her body would comply,
Who didn’t have to weigh the consequences of simply living life.
I miss the girl who danced in the kitchen and sang in the car,
Who believed in her dreams no matter how big or how fucking far.
Who loved with her whole heart without waiting for the ache,
Before she learned that even the hands that hold you can make you break.
And God, I miss the girl who didn’t flinch when someone got too close,
Who didn’t question the intentions of the people she loved most.
Before abandonment became a language she knew all too well,
Before “I’m fine” became the greatest lie she’d ever tell.
I miss the girl beneath the heels, the makeup and the smile,
Who didn’t have to put herself together just to feel enough for a little while.
Who didn’t have to convince the world that she was doing okay,
While silently begging her own body to just give her one good day.
And no, her life wasn’t perfect. . . It was far from even or fair,
But somehow, even through the darkness, she found hope somewhere.
She had a light within her that the world had yet to dim,
And a heart that still believed that better days would come again.
I know I’ve grown. I know I’ve healed. I know I’ve come so far,
I know that every wound we carry helps shape who we are.
And I wouldn’t trade the woman I’ve become or all that I now see,
But some days, I’d give just about anything to feel like me.
Not the strong one. Not the resilient one. Not the one who’ll find a way,
Not the one who holds it all together while quietly falling apart each day.
Not the woman who can conquer every obstacle thrown in her track,
Just the girl who once felt joy without having to fight to get it back.
And maybe she’s still somewhere underneath these layers of my soul,
Beneath the grief, the pain, the armor and my need to have control.
Maybe she’s been waiting for me to finally put my weapons down,
To stop fighting long enough to let the little girl be found.
Desiree Angelica Young
11/12/2026
But here’s the thing — and you know I’m a firm believer that two (or more) things can be true at the same time — I can desperately miss who I used to be while being incredibly proud of the woman I am today.
And maybe that’s something I need to remind myself of a little more often.
The Girl I Miss
I miss the ease of her.
Not because her life was easy. Lord knows it wasn’t. My childhood alone could have filled a few seasons of a wildly inappropriate Netflix series. 😂
But somewhere along the way, between the trauma, the loss, the heartbreak, the chronic illness, the responsibilities, the expectations, and the constant need to keep it all together. . . life got heavy.
And so did I.
Not physically — although my weight has certainly had its own damn character development — but emotionally, mentally, spiritually.
I miss laughing without feeling the weight of everything else. I miss waking up excited for the day instead of immediately assessing how much pain I’m in, how much energy I have, and whether or not I can accomplish everything I need to.
I miss making plans without the little voice in the back of my head reminding me that lupus doesn’t give a shit about my calendar.
I miss feeling like myself without having to work so hard at it.
And sometimes, I miss the version of me who didn’t know how much life could take from a person.
But if I’m really being fair to myself, that girl was struggling, too.
She just didn’t always know it.
She was surviving things she hadn’t yet learned how to name. She was accepting love with conditions because she didn’t know love could exist without them. She was making herself smaller in certain spaces, louder in others, and constantly adjusting who she was to make sure she belonged.
She was strong, yes.
But she didn’t know she was allowed to be anything else.
The Woman I Sometimes Forget to Celebrate
I spend an obnoxious amount of time focusing on my shortcomings.
What I haven’t accomplished. What I still need to heal from. What I could have done differently. Where I could be better. What I should have said, shouldn’t have said, should have done, or should have known.
And, because apparently my brain believes in offering a complimentary extended warranty on every single mistake I’ve ever made, I get to revisit them at 2:00 in the morning, too. 🙃
But somewhere in all that self-reflection, self-awareness, and borderline Olympic-level self-criticism, I forget to look back at how far I’ve actually come.
Ma’am. Look at your life.
Look at what you’ve survived.
Look at what you’ve built.
Look at the people you’ve loved, the villages you’ve helped create, the hands you’ve held, the people you’ve empowered, and the little girl you’ve fought like hell to protect.
Look at the woman who walked away from a fourteen-year marriage and had to figure out what life looked like on the other side of it.
The woman who has learned to set boundaries, even when her voice shakes. Who is learning that saying no doesn’t make her a bad person. Who is finally beginning to understand that love doesn’t have to be earned through exhaustion, sacrifice, or abandoning herself.
The woman who wrote a damn book about her life and is now dreaming about standing in front of rooms full of people, sharing her story in hopes that someone else might see what is possible for their own.
The woman who is learning to love herself, trust herself, and believe in herself — even when everything inside her is telling her to retreat.
And somehow, I’m still sitting here convincing myself I haven’t done enough?
The. Absolute. Audacity.
Gratitude Doesn’t Cancel Out the Darkness
I think one of the hardest things to explain about where I am in life right now is that I am genuinely, wholeheartedly grateful.
And I am also struggling.
Deeply.
There are days when the physical pain feels unbearable. Days when the exhaustion is so consuming that getting out of bed feels like an accomplishment no one else would understand. Days when my mind is heavy, my heart is heavier, and the woman everyone sees as strong feels like a shell of herself.
There are days when I cry in my car, scream at God, plead for answers, and wonder how much more one person is supposed to carry.
And yet. . .
I am grateful.
Grateful for the people who love me through the ugly parts. The ones who don’t just show up for the perfectly matched nails, the bright colors, the heels, the loud laugh, and the woman who can seemingly handle it all.
The ones who love me when I have absolutely nothing left to give.
The ones who remind me that I don’t have to earn my place in their lives. Who reach for my hand even when I flinch. Who remind me that I am allowed to be human.
I am grateful for the village I have built, the village that has built me, and the people who continue to teach me what unconditional love actually looks like.
I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, the lessons I’ve learned, the dreams I still have, and the fact that even in the midst of some of my darkest days, there is still a part of me that believes there is more to come.
More love.
More laughter.
More healing.
More chapters.
And I think that’s important to acknowledge because gratitude doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay. It doesn’t mean minimizing the pain or slapping a pretty little inspirational quote over the parts of your life that are falling apart.
Gratitude and grief can coexist. Hope and hopelessness can share a room. You can love your life and still desperately wish certain parts of it were different.
Two things can be true.
Hell, in my life, it’s usually about seventeen things at once.
The Word I Hate. . . Resilience.
If you know me, you know how much I hate being called resilient.
Not because I don’t recognize that I am.
But because sometimes I wish I hadn’t had to be.
I wish that little girl had been protected. I wish that young woman hadn’t had to learn some of the lessons she did. I wish my body didn’t require me to fight so hard for things other people get to do without a second thought.
I wish strength had been something I got to choose rather than something I had to become.
But I also recognize the beauty in what I’ve done with the hand I was dealt.
I could have become bitter. And, trust me, there are days when I’m a little salty — okay, a LOT salty (even without the salt pills that keep me going) — about how some things have played out.
But I’ve chosen to become better.
Not perfect. Not completely healed. Not some enlightened version of myself who floats through life with a peaceful smile and never says a swear word.
Abso-freaking-lutely not.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting my feelings hurt. Still figuring out how to rest without feeling guilty. Still trying to understand how to let people love me without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But I am also softer in ways I never thought I could be.
Stronger in ways I never knew I needed to be.
And more authentically myself than I have ever been.
Maybe I Don’t Want All of Her Back.
Maybe I want pieces of her.
Her laugh. Her lightness. Her excitement. Her ability to dream without immediately questioning whether those dreams were too big.
Maybe I want to feel that kind of joy again — but with the wisdom, boundaries, self-awareness, and strength of the woman I am today.
Because I don’t want to go back to being the woman who abandoned herself to keep other people.
I don’t want to go back to believing my worth was determined by how much I could do, how much I could endure, or how useful I could be.
I don’t want to unlearn the lessons that have allowed me to finally recognize my own value.
And I certainly don’t want to undo all the work I’ve done to become this version of me.
Maybe healing isn’t about getting the old me back.
Maybe it’s about bringing the parts of her that I miss into the life I’m building now.
Giving her permission to laugh again. To dream again. To love again. To be silly, spontaneous, hopeful, and excited about what comes next.
But this time, with someone looking out for her.
Me.
A Little More Damn Credit.
I’ve written a book about the chapters that made me who I am.
And now I’m living the next one.
The plot has been questionable, the character development has been a little aggressive, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind a few chapters where absolutely nothing goes wrong. 😂
But I am still here.
Still writing.
Still dreaming.
Still loving with my whole damn heart.
Still showing up in my heels, with my matching nails and my loud laugh, even on the days when it takes everything in me to do so.
And maybe it’s time I give myself a little more damn credit for that.
Not because I have it all figured out. Not because I’m no longer struggling. Not because I’ve reached some magical destination where healing is complete and life is suddenly easy.
But because even in the dark depths of my struggles, I can look at my life and recognize how much beauty exists within it.
Because even when I feel like I’m losing myself, I am still learning who I am.
Because even when I miss the old me, I know there are things about this version of me that I wouldn’t trade for the world.
I am a masterpiece and a work in progress.
I am blessed, stressed, a mess, hopeful, hurting, grateful, and growing.
All. Of. It.
And while there are still days when I desperately want me back, I’m beginning to realize something. . .
I didn’t fight this hard to become her just to spend the rest of my life picking her apart.
The little girl I once was deserved someone who loved her, protected her, believed in her, and celebrated her.
The woman I am today deserves that, too.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time I become that person for both of us.
I miss her.
I love her.
I am proud of her.
And I am so damn grateful that she kept going long enough for me to become who I am today.
Keep pen to paper. The best chapters may very well be the ones we haven’t written yet. ❤️
