A time travel tale.
(Please note: This was originally posted to substack on January 29, 2026, but I want it to live here too.)
I recently read this amazing fucking essay by Doechii (read it here), and it got me thinking:
If I could go back in time, when would I visit myself? Which version of me would I talk to?
And I think I would meet up with my 12 year old self.
Most likely in my childhood bedroom. That’s where most of my free time was spent. I would stand on my childhood sandbox, the one my parents made, heave myself onto the weathered shed, mount the rafter that leads to my bedroom window, and climb inside.
I think my 12 year old self would be ecstatic to see me. She would squeal over my outfit and my pixie haircut. I would tell her the former is a mix of inherited gems and thrifted finds, and the latter I did myself.
And I think my 12 year old self would break into tears.
She wouldn’t be able to fathom embodying that level of abundance, honesty, authenticity, and bravery. I think she would feel both awe and doubt – she’s just escaped years of abuse, and she’s still in the thick of her unprocessed trauma.
I would sit down with her on the twin-sized bed, mattress wrapped in flannel sheets sewed by mom and tucked inside an Ikea malm frame. I would cuddle her in close, and stroke her short hair – one of her first acts of authenticity.
And I would talk to her about the act of release.
I would tell her that it’s not so much an action as it is an art form. It’s a choice that will require cultivation, a devotional craft.
I would tell her that it can look, feel, and be experienced differently by everyone, and to not force her version on other people. I would tell her that, often times, it will be a creative process, coinciding with the creative projects she sets her heart to at the time.
I would tell her it’s something she will have to dedicate her life to, and not everyone else will.
She would nod and say, “I know. Dad’s always telling me to let stuff go.”
I would nod back and provide her some context, some meaningful explanation behind those words. Because I know that she barely understands the concept at all, and the only meaning she can associate with letting go right now is “dropping.”
Drop the subject. Drop the feeling. Drop the person. Drop the dream.
I would tell her she’s likely going to develop some illusions and delusions around what it means. That she will be greeted with the advice to do it over and over again, but there won’t be a lot of resources explaining how, and many of them won’t work for her. Not yet, at least.
I would tell her that the art of release won’t be about banishment, disappearance, or erasure. That it isn’t an act of eradication.
I know that her adolescence, her twenties, and even her thirties will be littered with “droppings.” I know that she will believe for a long time that peace will come from banishing people she’s grown to love too much, disappearing from places she’s grown too comfortable in, and abandoning projects she feels too deeply for.
I know that she will try hard to erase any feelings borne out of this self-inflicted loss.
And then she would burst into tears again. It would feel too big, and it is. It is too much, and it will be too much. And I would tell her that she will do it anyway, because she is brave enough to do it, and because it matters so much to her.
And then she would look at me, with puffy eyes and red cheeks, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and ask:
“What is it then?”
I would tell her it’s more of a loosening and a lessening. A shift in grip. A change in tension.
I would tell her that when she gets pregnant, she will witness her body preparing for birth, and that it does so by loosening. A hormone will flood her limbs, over and over and over, allowing her ligaments to relax. Relax enough for her small hips and tight pelvis to shift, broadening and widening to make space for little one to birth its ways out.
I would tell her that she will constantly hear the phrase birth/death/(re)birth, but that the art of release, for her, will be more like birth/death/(re)birth/death/(re)birth/death. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I would tell her that, more often than not, something old will die before something new can live. And I would tell her not to be ashamed of how many transformations she goes through, and to not fault herself for the amount of skins she will shed.
I would tell her that “letting go” won’t mean erasing the existence of something. That certain thoughts, people, and places will haunt us for the rest of our lives. But the grip they hold, the tension they create, will loosen and lessen.
And I would feel her body relax. Maybe for the first time. I would watch her unclench her jaw, relax her belly, and breathe deeply. I would watch her body loosen, her heaviness lessen, and that would be enough.
And I would tell her that even if it’s just for a second, it’s enough. It will always be enough, and that she is too.
And then I would cry as I leave. Feeling my heart break, knowing hers is too. Knowing all that she has to learn, to face, and to feel.
And as I climb out that window, down that rafter, and jump off the shed, I would unclench my jaw, relax my belly, and breathe deeply. Because I know that she’s going to be okay. That I’m okay. That I’m lucky and privileged to be so.
And maybe this did happen.
Maybe 36 year old me did visit 12 year old me and that’s why I’m okay. Maybe that’s why, and how, I’ve been slowly liberating myself all these years. Releasing the old as an old world dies, so that I can be new and help birth a new world. A better world.
A world where my child – and every fucking child – is safe, cared for, and free.
A world that knows, and teaches, how to lessen and loosen.
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