Let Her Be Little
Dec 06, 2025
Sorrow may shape you, but it doesn’t define you.
There are moments in life that change everything. Moments we never see coming, moments we’re not ready for. Some of them leave us breathless with wonder. Others crack us open.
What follows is a letter I once wished I had received—and now as a woman who has lived through both loss and renewal, I offer it to the little girl I used to be. She lived through something no child should. If you’ve ever had to grow up too fast, hold it together for someone else, or carry a weight that was never meant to be yours, this letter is also for you.
It's a reminder that sorrow isn’t the whole story and that joy, like sunlight, always finds a way through.
Dear Little One,
I see you.
You’re doing your best to be brave, to be strong, for your mom, for your little brother, for a world that changed in an instant. You didn’t ask for this. But here you are, trying to carry more than any small shoulders should have to bear.
I wish I could sit beside you now. I’d take your hand and let you rest for a while. Just rest.
You’ve had to grow up too soon, skipping over the soft parts of childhood like they were luxuries you couldn’t afford. And while everyone sees how capable you are, I see the little girl inside who misses her dad and wonders why the world had to break in two.
Let me tell you something, sweetheart: none of this is your fault. You are not responsible for making everything okay. And you don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of love.
You already are.
You always have been.
It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to now know what to do. It’s okay to long for things to feel normal again. Your heart is learning how to hold both sorrow and hope and that’s no small thing.
But listen closely now, because this part matters.
There will come a day when you laugh again without feeling guilty. When you feel sunlight on your face and let it stay there a while. When you rediscover the part of you that used to twirl and daydream and giggle until your cheeks hurt. She’s still there, waiting. She never left. You just tucked her away for safekeeping.
You haven’t lost your light; you’ve just been busy surviving.
And I want you to know joy is still yours to claim. You’re allowed to feel good. You’re allowed to play. You’re allowed to want beautiful things and soft landings and mornings that begin with possibility instead of worry.
You are allowed to be free.
One day, you’ll look back and see not just how far you’ve come, but how deeply you’ve loved and how bravely you’ve lived. And on that day, you’ll understand what I know now:
You’ve always been enough.
So, take a breath, little one. You don’t have to carry everything forever. Let someone carry you for a while. Let life be tender with you. Let love in.
The road ahead won’t be without bumps. But you’ll walk it with grace. With gumption. With a twinkle in your eye that says, “I’ve seen some things—and I still choose joy.
I’m so proud of you.
Love always,
The Woman You Become
(Second Edition)
