Is Little Me Proud?

I was around seven or eight when I decided my life would have meaning. No, let’s backtrack; it was probably much earlier than that.

At that time, I didn’t have the words to express it. I only felt a deep-rooted certainty in my heart, solid and unquestionable. I was destined to do something. To be someone. Not necessarily famous or wealthy in the typical sense kids envision, but significant and purposeful. And yes, wealthy enough to have everything I needed. I envisioned myself as a person whose life would make sense upon reflection.

I was so convinced.

I think back to that little girl from those days, not with nostalgia or fondness, but more out of curiosity, like examining a photograph of someone you once knew. She was confident about things she hadn’t yet grasped, and that certainty was genuine. It showed in how she approached her tasks, in her speech, and in her demeanor.

And I can’t help but wonder: if she could see me now, amidst all this growth and evolution into adulthood, what would she think?"

To be honest, I really don't have a clear answer.

That uncertainty keeps me awake at night more than any fear of failure ever could.

Failure is something I can identify. I can point it out, account for it, and make it into a story about growth, resilience, and the determination to try again. But this question, whether the person I'm becoming aligns with what my former self would have chosen…this is much harder to resolve.

Somewhere between then and now, my desires became complex. So complex that I can't fully express it in a single piece or perhaps even in an entire book.

It changed from being about feelings to focusing on metrics. The grades, the timelines, the invisible checklist that no one provided but which I've somehow internalized so deeply that I can no longer trace its origin. I've found myself measuring against standards that seem to change every time I get close to them, pursuing an elusive notion of "enough" that's always just out of reach.

The younger version of me didn’t have a checklist. She just had a feeling. She wanted her life to have significance, and for her, meaning wasn’t found in acting; it was simply about existing in the world,you know, being awake, intentional, and truly alive in ways that would bring comfort to her heart and fulfillment to her days.

When she looks at some aspects of who I've become now, she might not recognize them. The anxiety that masquerades as ambition. The need to prove myself that has quietly taken the place of personal growth. The tendency I have to turn any positive experience into proof of what I still haven’t accomplished.

That part is something I doubt she would grasp.

Yet, there’s also this truth:

She didn’t exactly understand the cost involved. How could she? Childhood certainty feels pure precisely because it hasn’t yet encountered reality. It hasn’t had to endure the world as it truly is, with its rejections, compromises, and gradual weariness. She cherished her dreams lightly because she hadn’t yet realized how challenging they can become when time moves on and the gap between who you are and who you envisioned yourself becoming starts to feel like a judgment.

I'm not saying she was naive or overly confident, because some of her certainty still lives within me. I can only say she was a little untouched by experience.

What I carry now is something she couldn't have shouldered back then. The complexity isn’t a betrayal of that little girl; it’s simply what happened as she grew up and continued on.

This is the part no one prepares you for when growing up: your core self remains familiar, but the way it manifests changes almost beyond recognition. The little girl who wanted to matter is still here. I can sense her in those moments that cut through all the chaos, when I write something genuine, when I sit with a friend in their pain and truly help, when I make a choice that costs me yet aligns with my beliefs. She's present in those instances, as clear as ever.

It's just that in between those moments lies a lot of life. A great deal of doubt and reassessment, along with days where I'm uncertain about which way growth is leading me. A lot of time spent grappling with whether I'm intentionally becoming someone or merely drifting along and calling it progress.

That part wasn’t part of her dreams. But I don't think she'd dismiss it either.

I believe she would observe the effort, me truly trying, rather than merely performing—and see a reflection of herself in it. The unwillingness to settle. The desire for something genuine. The realization that the question still holds significance for me, that I continue to care about whether my life has enough meaning to justify its existence.

That concern originates from her.

So would she feel proud?

For her, pride wouldn’t manifest as a sense of having gotten to her dream destination. She didn’t envision completed outcomes. Instead, she dreamed in emotions, of purpose, of depth, of a life actively chosen rather than one that just happened.

And I am still in the process of choosing. Even when my choices are misguided. Even when I choose and then second-guess myself only to choose again. Even on days when I feel furthest from who I intended to be, I remain present, still questioning, still refusing to accept "it doesn't matter" as an answer.

Perhaps that's what she would notice, not the accomplishments or the spaces between them. Not the titles or their absence. Just the simple fact that despite everything, I still care about becoming someone worth being.