Before It Made Sense

Dear me,

It’s late.

I don’t know how to start this

without feeling a little ridiculous.

I have been thinking about you —

not as a stranger, but as a version of me

that survived something

I have not yet seen.

I write from a place…

Where everything still feels unfinished

An age where dreams are loud

But direction is quiet

Where I am becoming

Without knowing into what.

I was supposed to be something else,

or so I told myself.

something important, something that looked like progress,

something I could point to and say,

"This is where my life is going.”

But instead, I’m still here.

Curled into myself,

music low enough to feel like a thought,

not loud enough to distract me from one —

and somehow,

I let my mind wander.

Not sure if you’re there...

Or if you’re real —

but if you are,

then you made it five years further than me.

So tell me…

Do we still plan everything

and somehow does nothing on time?

Do we still say "I'll start tomorrow"

like tomorrow owes us something?

Do we still hesitate...

Before saying what we feel,

and when we do,

are we softer,

or more blunt?

Or did life finally teach us

that silence is a kind of loss?

I wonder if we laugh the same —

head thrown back, careless...

or if time has shaped it

into something quieter,

something guarded.

Do we still wait

the way I do now —

Standing at the edge of things,

calling it patience, when it is really fear?

I ask because I have been here before,

telling myself I just need more time,

More clarity, more certainty —

as if those things

ever arrive all at once.

Or did we finally learn

how to begin

without needing everything

to make sense first?

And the writing —

do we still write like it matters?

at ungodly hours,

half-inspired, half-lost?

Do we still sit with words

until they start to feel like home,

or did we let them go

because life asked for something

more practical?

I’m asking because lately,

I’ve been quiet in ways that don’t feel like peace

like something in me

is waiting to be used,

and I keep putting it off

for later versions of us.

Tell me...

how many times did we almost stop,

and how many times

did we return anyway?

Did we ever finish something

and recognize ourselves in it?

Not just in the words,

but in the courage

it took to stay?

How many books

have our hands held now?

Did we finish even one...

the way we always said we would?

Did we publish?

Or are our stories still sitting quietly,

waiting for a push?

Do we have a job now,

or are we still

figuring it out?

and our hair...

Did we lock it?

Did we keep it natural, untouched,

or did we change it

just to feel different?

Are we still drawn to pink

like it’s a piece of who we are?

Do we still collect things...

headphones, mugs, yarn —

little proofs that we existed in moments of joy?

Do we still sit down

and care for our skin

like it deserves patience?

Did we get better at makeup,

or did we finally learn

we never needed it that much?

Is basketball still home,

or did life teach us

to love something else?

And the soft things...

the yarn,

the slow patience of making something

with our own hands,

The small beginning, we once believed in...

Did we nurture it?

Did it grow into something real,

something that reached beyond us,

Or did we leave it behind

somewhere between doubt and distraction?

I ask because I keep starting things

with love,

and leaving them

with hesitation.

And God —

tell me about God.

please tell me we built a better relationship with Him,

or are we still searching in the same quiet way,

hoping we are being heard

even when we don’t know what to say?

Because right now,

I don’t know if I’m growing in faith

or just holding onto the idea of it.

Did we learn how to sit with Him

without performing?

Did we find Him...

In the ordinary moments,

or are we still looking

for something that feels like certainty?

And Forgiveness —

did we ever learn

how to let go of what hurt us?

Or do some things

still live inside us

like they were never meant to leave?

I ask because there are memories

that still feel present,

like they haven’t understood

that time has passed.

And life —

Did it meet us gently,

Or did it have to break us further

to teach us anything real?

Did we make it through

the things that felt like too much?

Did we become stronger,

or just better at hiding what we feel?

so —

when it came to everything

we once dreamed of, the work, car, the degree,

the silent promises we made

to ourselves at 2 a.m.—

did we become someone we are proud of?

or someone we needed?

I hope you are softer with yourself.

I hope you stopped measuring

your worth in unfinished goals

and quiet comparisons.

I hope you learned how to rest

without feeling like you’re falling behind.

And if you didn’t —

if you’re still fighting,

still figuring,

still unsure...

maybe it means

I don’t have to rush.

Maybe we were never meant

to have all the answers at once.

But tell me...

did we walk across that stage

carrying everything we almost dropped?

Did we become what we said we would,

or something else —

maybe something we didn’t plan for

but needed to be?

Are we practicing now?

Standing in rooms

where our voice matters,

not because we forced it,

but because we finally believed

it deserved to be?

Or are we still finding our way

through doors

that don’t always open easily?

And us —

outside of all of that...

did we change?

Do we still love the same small things —

the colour that felt like comfort,

the collections that made no sense

to anyone else but us?

Do we still take care of ourselves

in quiet ways,

Or did life make us forget

how to be gentle

with who we are?

Do we still sit alone sometimes

just to understand ourselves,

or did everything become too fast to notice?

And love,

I don’t even know how to ask this...

do we still tolerate nonsense

just to avoid being alone,

or did we finally learn how to walk away?

I keep asking about love —

not because I am desperate,

But because I am curious.

Did someone stay?

Or did we finally learn

the difference between being chosen

and being understood?

I ask because right now,

I’m still figuring out what it means

to be enough on my own.

And the people we once held close —

are they still here?

Or did time do

what it always does —

shift things quietly

until nothing feels exactly the same?

Be honest, Munu and Lobs —

Are they still there?

Did we keep our friendships safe,

or did life do what it does best

and took it somewhere else?

Tell me something I’m almost afraid to ask—

are we loved now,

in the way we used to imagine?

Are we married?

Do we have a child

who looks at us

like we are their whole world?

Or are we still becoming —

still building,

still searching

for something that feels like home?

And one last thing…

when you think of me,

this version of us,

full of plans, doubt, and quiet hope —

do you smile gently

because you understand her,

or do you wish

she had done more?

Because from where I stand, I’m trying.

Even if it doesn’t always look like it.

Even if it’s slow.

Even if it’s messy.

I’m still trying

to become you.

Did we make it through

the nights that feel like

they have no ending?

Or did we simply learn

how to pretend they do?

There is so much I want to know.

But maybe what I’m really asking is this...

when you look back at me, at this version of us

overthinking,

hoping,

delaying...

Please forgive her

for the things she didn’t do.

And if you ever find this...

don’t just read it.

Remember

what it felt like to be in the middle of it all,

before anything settled,

before anything made sense.

Written somewhere

in my twenty-something years,

where everything feels urgent, unfinished,

and still mattered anyway.