I’ve Always Been Just As Beautiful As I Am Now: Why It’s Important to Be Kind to Your Younger Self

Ever since we were little, we’ve been taught to be kind to each other, to have empathy, to treat people the way you want to be treated. So why is it that when it comes to our younger selves, especially those awkward pre-teen and teenage years, we are so relentlessly cruel? We talk about them as if we’re our own school bullies. It is completely normalized to pull up younger photos of yourself with friends and laugh at your gap tooth, your scruffy haircut, your knobbly knees. It would almost feel strange to look at those same images and say aloud, wow, don’t I look cute in that green dress, or this old video of me singing is so sweet. That kind of tenderness feels embarrassing, even indulgent, as if it breaks some unspoken rule.

We’ve been shaped to mock any version of ourselves that isn’t either incredibly recent or safely distant, like a baby. Everything in between, from around seven years old to who we are now, carries an inherited sense of shame; a shame that it is integral to let go of. Those photos, hobbies, interests, and creative attempts are not jokes, they are reflections of who we were at the time, building blocks to help us become fully formed versions of ourselves.

Over the past year, I’ve been teaching myself to give every version of Ottilie grace. She is me, I am her, and I love her.

My younger self was, in many ways, a saint. She laid the foundations of who I am today. She formed my core traits, my quirks, and my interests: all the things that helped me build key friendships and also recognize the people who were never meant to stay in my life. Everything I laugh at now is a product of a sense of humour built slowly, year by year. The music I love, the colours that catch my eye, and the things I feel drawn towards all exist because of her.

When I think about my closest friends, girls I met in Year 7 and others I have known since I was seven years old, I have to remember that those connections began with her. The people who may one day stand beside you as a maid of honour, or hold your wrinkled hand in a nursing home, chose to love you when you were small. The girl you mock so easily did that for you, and those friendships are just as integral to who you are now as anything else.

I am glad that I am melodramatic. I am glad that I love listening to music, that I am a control freak, and that I cry when I am happy. I am grateful that there are parts of me that will always remain, parts that cannot be shaken out of me.

There is a trend I often see online where girls with undeniable swagger say, younger me would think I’m so cool now. Every time it comes up on my page, I feel a strange wave of anger. I understand that these posts are harmless, a way of expressing pride in the person you have become. But while you elevate who you are today, you may also be, however unintentionally, putting down the girl you once were.

I would not be surprised if some of the people who join in on this trend are the same ones who describe their thirteen-year-old selves as fugly losers. That is where my empathy steps in. I imagine the face of little me if she heard that I had called her a freak, someone with a face only a mother could love, after she had proudly admired me for being cool, confident, and curvy. Just thinking about it breaks my heart.

It is important to remember that, however cool you believe you are now, you have always been that way. It has always lived somewhere inside you, somewhere inside the girl you are so quick to mock.

In my twenties, I have noticed that some of the women I surround myself with speak about their younger selves with a kind of maternal tenderness, especially when reflecting on those late formative years between sixteen and nineteen. I relate to this deeply. I feel fiercely protective of every version of myself that there ever has been and ever will be. However, something I do not think we talk about enough is the idea that, in many ways, our younger selves were our own mothers.

At first, this feels like a strange sentiment. When we were young, we were childish and ignorant. How could we possibly have been caretakers? Yet I believe that protective instincts are something we are born with. Like a mother, my younger self taught me right from wrong, often through mistakes and bad decisions. She carried grief, heartache, and depression. She processed experiences that I did not yet have the tools to understand, so that I could become the person I am today, sitting on my sofa, writing this article.

Our younger selves also protect us in quieter, less visible ways. The need for perfection, the urge to people-please, the ability to adapt in social situations are all attempts at keeping ourselves safe. They are subconscious survival strategies. Almost everything we do is rooted in the instinct to stay alive, emotionally as well as physically. When you think about it that way, even yesterday’s version of you was acting as a protector, a kind of guardian angel.

The only moments where I feel genuine shame about my teenage self comes from sudden flashbacks to things I said to my family, or to moments of irrational behaviour. Remembering how mean or hysterical I could be, often over nothing at all, fills me with an intense sense of cringe. I can admit that I was spoiled at times. Gratitude is often something learned through having little, and because I never experienced an underprivileged life, there were moments when I simply failed to appreciate what I had.

Even so, these are the kinds of memories that families eventually learn to forget. Children are, more often than not, annoying, and that is almost expected. I am fortunate to have parents with enough unconditional love to push past my worst moments, including what my oldest sister refers to as my phase of being an “absolute dickhead” at twelve years old.

This kind of shame is natural. It is uncomfortable to accept that you were once in the wrong and to take accountability for actions from years ago. I try not to work myself up over it. Just give yourself grace, apologise where necessary, and move on.

When I look at photos of my younger self now, or speak about her aloud, I return to the same thought: I’ve always been just as beautiful as I am now. This is not vanity, but a moment of closure. If past versions of me did everything they could to protect the person I am today, then it feels only right to offer that same care in return. I try to speak about every version of myself in the way I would speak about my friends, my family, or anyone else who has helped shape who I am.

As silly as it might sound, for the past few months I have started each morning the same way. I look at myself in the mirror and say, echoing Mr Darcy’s confession to Bridget Jones, I love you, just as you are. In that reflection, I see the same green eyes, the same wonky smile, the same freckles and golden hair shared by every version of myself that has come before, and I am reminded that I have always been her, and she has always been me.

Words by Ottilie Trevor-Harris, she/her