A Letter to My Younger Self: 5 Lessons on Worth, Wounds, and Wisdom

Introduction

I turn 37 in a month.

There’s something about nearing 40 that makes you look back—not with regret, but with a quiet ache for the girl who didn’t know what you know now. The girl who thought love was earned, worth was proven, and healing was something you could outrun.

This isn’t just a birthday post. It’s a love letter to my younger self—and to anyone who’s ever felt like they were too much yet not enough at the same damn time.

What I Wish I Knew in My 20s

1. Your Worth Isn’t Negotiable

I spent years bending myself into shapes to fit into people’s lives. I thought if I loved harder, worked more, stayed smaller, I’d finally be chosen.

When I was 10, I left Angola—where my warm, hilarious, deeply loving mama raised me—and moved to Germany to live with relatives. From that moment, love felt conditional. I became the “good girl” who never asked for too much, did the chores, brought home the grades, and made herself easy to keep around. I thought proving my usefulness was the only way to be wanted.

But here’s the truth: Real love doesn’t ask you to shrink.

If I had known my worth wasn’t tied to how much I could endure, I would’ve left toxic relationships years sooner. I wouldn’t have mistaken breadcrumbs for banquets.

2. Your Inner Child Isn’t Just a Metaphor

That fear of abandonment? The way you clung to people who hurt you? The way rejection felt like death?

That wasn’t you—that was the little girl inside who never felt safe. The one who learned love was something to earn or beg for.

When I was about 11 or 12, I had already learned how to babysit, cook, and carry emotional weight far beyond my years. No one hugged me. No one came to my graduations. I signed myself up for activities just to feel human. The only place I ever truly felt seen was at church.

Healing that little girl would’ve saved me from:

• Chasing emotionally unavailable men who reminded me of my caretakers

• Apologizing for needing basic respect

• Confusing familiar pain with love

3. Your Attachment Style is Your Love Blueprint

I didn’t know the word “anxious attachment” in my 20s. I just knew love felt like panic—like if I didn’t hold on tight enough, it would disappear.

And when I did lose people, I blamed myself. I thought I wasn’t enough. I didn’t understand I was reenacting abandonment over and over—trying to fix what was never mine to carry in the first place.

If I had understood my attachment wounds, I would’ve known:Love shouldn’t feel like a test. Love shouldn’t feel like a hostage situation. Secure love exists—but you have to believe you deserve it first.

4. “No” is a Love Language

I used to think boundaries were selfish. That saying “no” would make people abandon me.

But I’ve learned—through heartbreak, through therapy, through loneliness—that every “no” to someone else was a “yes” to myself. The right ones? They stay. The wrong ones? They show themselves out.

5. You Don’t Have to Earn Rest

I wore burnout like a badge of honor. Years of being in survival mode, then running my own sales agency, chasing goals, proving I could do it all.

Even when I was going blind as a teenager, taking 10 pills a day, navigating surgeries alone in Düsseldorf while my aunt and uncle stayed home—I didn’t rest. I hustled for love.

But your body isn’t a machine—it’s a sacred home. You don’t have to destroy yourself to prove your value.

What This Wisdom Would’ve Saved Me From

• Years of people-pleasing that left me hollow

• Shrinking in relationships just to feel safe

• Self-abandonment—choosing others over myself

• Waiting for permission to feel joy, to take up space, to breathe

A Letter to My 20-Year-Old Self

Sweet girl,

You don’t have to earn love.

You don’t have to ‘fix’ yourself to be worthy.

The right people won’t make you beg for safety.

One day, you’ll stop chasing—and start receiving.

One day, you’ll realize the love you were searching for outside was inside you all along.

I know some days you feel invisible.I know you miss Mama, the beach, the warm sun, the fishermen, the bolachas.I know you’re carrying pain that no one even sees.

Keep going.

Your 37-year-old self is so proud of you.

Final Thoughts

If you’re in your 20s, I hope this saves you time.If you’re like me—older, wiser, still healing—I hope this reminds you: growth isn’t linear.

Every wound was an invitation. Every betrayal was redirection. Every breakdown was sacred.

Here’s to 37. To no longer shrinking.

To finally knowing: I was always enough.

With all my love,

Eny, The Pain Alchemist