A New Year's Letter to The Old You: A Healing Practice to Reclaim Your Narrative

I swear it feels like every year, January hits and suddenly we’re bombarded with this cultural script that says we should be staring fiercely at the horizon, plotting our conquests, becoming a “new person.” It feels like everyone’s mentally packing for a five-star resort future.

But what if you’re standing there, and your luggage feels… different? It’s not empty and ready for new shit. It’s this bulky, awkward backpack you’ve been hauling for years. You can hear things rattling around in there (hello, old hurts, fragmented memories, the voice of that one shitty teacher or religious leader, the silence where approval should have been). The idea of sprinting toward a shiny new future while lugging that? That sounds fucking exhausting.

So maybe this year, we try something different. Instead of only looking forward, what if we turned around, just for a little bit? (I promise!) Not to get stuck there, but to finally acknowledge the weight we’ve been carrying. To look at the younger you who packed that bag in the first place.

This isn’t about dwelling. It’s about integration. It’s about saying, “Hey, you. I see you back there. You’ve been with me this whole time. Let’s… chat.”

Why Writing to Your Past Self Isn’t Just Woo-Woo (It’s Actually Science-Backed & Totally Badass)

For anyone with trauma, CPTSD, or a childhood that felt like walking on psychological eggshells, your sense of self and time can get totally fragmented. It’s not one smooth story. It’s like your biography was written by a chaotic editor who left whole chapters on the cutting room floor, and then someone else scribbled mean notes in the margins.

This exercise, writing a letter to your younger self, is the opposite of that chaos. It’s you, the adult self with way more resources and safety (even if it’s just a sliver), becoming the compassionate witness that kid never had. You’re not changing the past. You’re changing your relationship to it.

You’re doing a radical act of reclamation. You’re taking the narrative back from the people or systems that fucked it up. You get to say what was true. You get to offer the comfort that was missing. It’s reparenting, but without the weird parts. It’s just… showing up for yourself, finally.

Before You Start: Build a Safety Net, Not Just a Writing Desk

This isn’t a grocery list. It's more like emotional archaeology. Be smart about it.

Set the Scene: Choose a time and place where you won’t be interrupted. Phone on airplane mode. Maybe you have a cozy blanket. This is your temporary sacred space.

Gather Supplies: Your writing thing (Notes app, fancy journal, napkin), a box of tissues (not because you will cry, but because you might, and it’s nicer than your sleeve), and a glass of water. Seriously, hydration is key to feelings.

Plan the After-Care: Decide what you’ll do after. A walk? Rewatching your favorite comfort show? Making a stupidly buttery grilled cheese? Have a plan to ground the fuck back into the present. This is non-negotiable.

Give Yourself a Full, Unconditional Pass: Permission to stop. Permission to write one sentence and nope the fuck out. Permission to skip it entirely. This is an invitation, not an assignment. If your body screams “NO,” listen to it. That’s also healing.

The No-Pressure, Guided Framework (Steal These Prompts)

If you’re ready and it feels okay, here’s a structure. Don’t worry about eloquence. Worry about honesty. Swear if you need to - Lord knows I do! Lol.

The Salutation:
Just start.

“Dear little me,”

“Hey you, at 12,”

“To the kid in the blue bedroom,”

“Dear confused, angry teenager.”

Whatever lands.

Acknowledge & Validate (The “I See You” Part):
This is where you prove to that younger part that they’re not invisible anymore.

“I want you to know I see you. I see you trying so hard to be perfect so the yelling would stop.”

“I see you sitting alone at lunch, feeling like an alien. That hurt. Of course it did.”

“I see how hard you were praying, hoping to feel something, and the shame that came when you felt nothing. That made so much sense.”
The goal here is one simple, powerful message: Your feelings then were fucking valid.

Offer What Was Missing (The “I Wish You’d Heard This” Part):
Say what they needed someone to say.

“I wish someone had told you that your anger was okay. It was a signal. It was trying to protect you.”

“I wish someone had said your sensitivity wasn’t a flaw. It was your superpower, and it was just too bright for the dim rooms they put you in.”

“You didn’t deserve the silent treatment. You didn’t deserve the constant critique. That was their shit, not yours.”

Share What You Know Now (Without Being a Dismissive Dick):
Don’t say “it made you stronger.” That can feel like bullshit. Instead, connect the dots with respect.

“From where I’m sitting now, I can see how that pain gave me this insane radar for other people’s hurt. It’s why I’m so compassionate now. You didn’t know that would be the gift.”

“Because you survived that, I now know I can survive damn near anything. You built a resilience in me I didn’t even know was there.”

Make a Promise (The Reclamation):
This is where you bring them forward with you.

“I am carrying you with me now. I promise to protect your rest like it’s my job.”

“I promise to find the joy and the silliness you were denied.”

“I promise to listen to that gut feeling you always had, the one they told you to ignore.”

The Closing:
Sign it with love. Because it is an act of love.

“With so much understanding, Your Present-Day Self.”
“You’re not alone anymore, Future You.”

What the Hell Do I Do With This Letter Now?

Whatever feels right. There’s no wrong answer.

• Keep it: Tuck it in a drawer. Keep it as a talisman.

• Speak it: Read it aloud, or whisper it to yourself. Hearing the words matters.

• Release it: Ritually burn it (safely please, like in a sink or fire pit) or bury it. Let the act symbolize letting the pain go, while keeping the wisdom and the relationship with your younger self.

• Answer it: Feel wild? Write a quick reply from your younger self. “Thank you for seeing me. Please be kinder to our body.” I wonder what they have to say back to you!

This is Your Quiet, Powerful New Year’s Revolution

Forget the loud, external resolutions. This letter is an internal treaty. It’s the start of an alliance with every version of you that has ever existed. It sets a tone for the year of kindness, of integration, of finally being on your own goddamn side.

And listen, if the idea of doing this brings up a tidal wave of “oh, fuck no,” or you try it and feel totally overwhelmed, that’s an invitation, not a failure. It just means the stories are deep, and the protective walls are high. You don’t have to dismantle them alone with a pen and paper.

This is exactly the kind of work we do in therapy. I want to help you hold those fragmented chapters with compassion, so you can finally write the narrative of what comes next in the journey of becoming the author of your own life. If you’re ready to turn your pain into integration, let’s talk about working together. The first chapter starts whenever you’re ready.