Versions of Me I Had to Meet

I don’t remember calling this meeting. But here we are.

A circle of women who all share my face. Some older. Some younger. Some tired. Some radiant. Some with eyes that have seen too much. Some with hearts still learning to open.

They shift in their seats. I do too. Because facing them means facing myself.

We begin with the version I’ve judged the hardest. And move, slowly, toward the one I’m learning to love the most.

 
The one who knew the streets smirks from the edge of the circle. "You forget about me?"

"Never," I say. "You were sharp. Fast. A survivor. You taught me hustle. Instinct. Street wisdom."

She nods.

 
The young mom speaks next. She’s barely holding it together—juggling bottles, shame, and the weight of judgment. "I didn’t know what I was doing," she says. "But I showed up. Even when I wanted to disappear. Even when no one clapped."

She looks at me with quiet defiance. "I gave you the fire. The reason. The love."

 
The one who lost everything walks in with eyes down. "We had to let go," she says. "It was killing us. But letting go almost killed me too."

I take a breath. "You gave me grief. You gave me space to grieve without shame."

 
The fighter steps forward. Jaw tight. Knuckles scarred. "I used to throw fists. Lash out. React first, think later. It was the only power I knew."

She looks up with tear-glossed eyes. "But you learned to listen. To breathe. To respond, not explode."

I nod slowly. "You gave me survival. But you also showed me what peace costs—and why it’s worth everything."

 
The one who stayed too long. In places that dimmed her light. With people who mistook her softness for weakness. "I confused pain with purpose," she whispers. "I thought if I held on long enough, it would change."

Her voice cracks. "I gave you the lesson. The boundary. The proof that you’re allowed to leave."

 
The numb one sits nearby. Calm on the surface, but you can feel the ache underneath. "I didn't want to feel it," she says. "So I distracted myself. I numbed. I checked out."

I nod. "You did what you had to to survive." She meets my eyes. "I gave you a pause. The space between the waves. The realization that healing had to come next."

 
The one who broke is next. Slouched. Quiet. Eyes like heavy glass. "I thought it was the end," she confesses. "When everything fell apart, I thought we were done."

I reach for her hand. "But you did it. You gave me surrender. You made space for something new."

 
The dreamer walks in barefoot. Hair wild. Eyes full of stars and saltwater. "I saw this life before anyone else did," she says, grinning. "You called it crazy. But I kept dreaming anyway."

She twirls a strand of hair and adds, "I gave you vision. Freedom. Permission."

 
The host arrives with grace. Elegant. Calm. Always smiling. "I turned pain into hospitality," she says. "I learned to make people feel safe because I never did."

She nods at me. "I gave you connection. Reputation. Community."

 
The professional strides in with sharp edges and schedules. "I cleaned up. Showed up. Got shit done," she says. "I learned the systems. I spoke their language. I became the version they respected."

She softens just slightly. "I gave you credibility. Stability. And the chance to rewrite what success could look like."

 
The tenacious one walks in barefoot but unbreakable. She’s the one who kept going when no one was clapping, no one was helping, no one even believed in the dream. "I stayed up late. Learned as I went. Carried the weight alone."

She places her hand over her heart. "You owe it all to me. I gave you endurance. I gave you the empire."

 
And finally, the one who forgave. She speaks softly. "You can stop punishing yourself now."

She pauses. "You did the best you could with what you knew. And when you knew better, you did better."

Tears sting my eyes. "You gave me grace. You gave me peace."

 
At the head of the circle sits future me. Older. Softer. Steady as the tide. She doesn’t speak right away. She just watches.

"What do I need to know?" I ask.

She smiles gently. "Stop fighting the becoming. Every version of you mattered. None of them were wasted."

 
And for the first time, I understand. None of them were mistakes.

They were all chapters. All sacred. All necessary.

I see them. I honor them. I welcome them home.

And in this moment, I feel completely, entirely here.

I am ready.

Chantal