A Letter to Your Younger Self

What inner child work can teach us about the ways we learned to survive, and what it can mean to let our adult selves take the lead.

So much of the work I do with patients eventually brings us back to a younger version of themselves. As adults, we can begin to understand experiences that our younger selves simply did not have the perspective, language, or resources to make sense of at the time. We can become curious about the beliefs we formed, the responsibilities we took on, and the ways we learned to adapt in order to stay connected, safe, loved, or needed.

One exercise I often use once we have spent time understanding a patient’s story is a letter to their younger self. This intervention is quite emotional and timing matters deeply when I am deciding to bring it into the therapy.

Writing a Letter to Your Younger Self

This isn't simply an exercise in offering reassurance or saying kind things to yourself. The letter hopes to reaffirm to your younger self that they could not have possibly understood what was happening to them in the way that your wiser adult self now does. And that matters. Your younger self, being only a child, did not have the capacity to have the perspective your adult self has now.

What were they trying to survive? What did they come to believe about themselves? What responsibilities did they take on that never belonged to them? What did they sacrifice in order to stay connected, safe, loved, or needed? And what would it mean for the adult they are now to finally take some of that responsibility back?

The following letter was written by a patient of mine after we had spent considerable time together putting their childhood experience into language. I am sharing it here with their permission because I think it beautifully illustrates what this work can eventually become. I think it all illustrates how powerful this intervention is and how needed this work is. This patient and I have worked together for four years.

Dear Little Jen,

You have been through so much hurt. You’ve seen so much hurt, and you have taken on so much hurt. When you were alone and trying so hard just to make sense of everything, it was easier to care for the people around you than yourself. You were so small, and dealing with things that didn’t even make sense or align with your understanding of the world. Of course, as a child, a pre-teen and teen there was truly very little you could do. Because what was happening wasn’t your choice; what was being done and said was not you or your actions, they were those of adults around you.

I know that you began to see this different side of your dad that wasn’t familiar. Disconnected, unhappy, withdrawn. And your strong mom became someone you worried for. That ultimately you wished to protect, because losing her meant losing everything. But in doing so you lost bits of yourself along the way. It’s not your fault, you were desperate and afraid and had nowhere to turn. Your emotions and needs didn’t feel so important because in which world would those matter even remotely as much as your own survival.

I understand why you cried alone, and why you went to school every day in fear. I understand why talking to friends felt empty and why you would work so hard to get good grades and finish your homework before getting home. You did those things so no one could worry about you, so that you could fake being okay to support the people you cherished.

I know how many troubles and conflicts you set aside to not be “a problem” and how you would distance yourself in order to take care of your broken family. None of that was your job or obligation, but I understand that it was survival, and it got you through.

But all the things you did and all the things you gave up led to you believing you were a burden, too much to handle, too much to care for, too much. Those things are not true. You were a child fighting to stay afloat, but you didn’t deserve to be pushing yourself off the ship to make room for others. You weren’t extra luggage that had to be dropped. You weren’t the one making the choices in the control room; you were just trying to do your best to survive.

For all the times you cried alone.
For all the times you stayed home instead of going out with friends.
For all the times you hid your emotions and thoughts.
For all the times you gave people the benefit of the doubt.
For all the times you put others first.
For all the times you held a friend in their pain while you hurt.

You did all of that to not be a burden. But you have never been a burden. And to me, now, as an adult, you are still not a burden. I know the pain you’ve felt. I know the sacrifices you made. And I’m sad, so sad that you never got to share, to feel, to be how you wanted. I’m sad that you hid, that you minimized, that you disconnected. But I’m proud of you for surviving. And I’m happy you’re still with me. But it’s time to let me lead you.

You’ve gotten me this far and I will be grateful to you for that. Your strategy worked to get yourself as far as you’ve come. But now, I need you to let go of the steering wheel and sit back. Take a nap, feel the sun, sit on the beach, enjoy the journey, because I’m here to take over and pull us through. Life is still hard, but now I’m equipped because my dreams and I want you to come with me so you can experience all of that. Let me navigate. You can finally be a burden to me, and while I might not always be strong, I know I can hold you all the same.

I want to hear you and understand you. I want to sit with you and cry with you, but I also want to show you joy, adventure, care. I want your help to reconnect to things we threw away, because now we can enjoy it.

People may not always understand, but that’s okay, because with me around, we’ll never drown. I learned how to keep myself afloat, and I want you to be with me. I’m coming with the life raft, but you have to accept my offer and let me pull you in.

I can’t replace the people that left, but I sure as hell can make up for some of the pain they caused you. They hurt me too. So I think it’s only right that we get to live the life we want.

You are not a burden, you never have been, and you never will be. So let me take the helm. Now I will care for you the way others couldn’t. It may not always be perfect, but I’ll never leave your side.

Letting Your Adult Self Take the Lead

What I love about this letter is that her wise adult isn't trying to convince her younger self that nothing bad happened.

Quite the opposite.

There is an acknowledgment of what happened, what it cost, and why her younger self responded the way she did.

But there is also something new.

You've gotten me this far and I will be grateful to you for that. Your strategy worked to get yourself as far as you've come. But now, I need you to let go of the steering wheel and sit back.

That is a significant part of what we are working toward.

We aren't trying to erase the parts of you that learned how to survive. We respect and honour those parts of you that brilliantly learned how to survive. We are helping those parts discover that they no longer have to carry the same responsibilities.

The wise adult you are today can begin to lead, protect, set boundaries, make choices, and care for the younger parts of you that had to do far too much, far too early.

And sometimes healing begins with being able to look back at that younger version of yourself and say:

I understand why you became who you became. You got me here. But I am no longer a vulnerable child in my childhood home, and these adaptations are no longer serving me as an adult, away from my family system and in my own life.

I'll take it from here.

Exploring Trauma & Inner Child Work in Therapy

Understanding the younger parts of ourselves can help us make sense of patterns that otherwise feel frustrating or difficult to change.

If you recognize yourself in some of these experiences, you can learn more about how I approach this work through Trauma & Inner Child Therapy in Vancouver.