I Met My Younger Self Poem by Sharon Namwalizi

I met my younger self.
I found her with her head buried in a book,
her hands scrabbling away, fingers stained with ink
on her bedroom floor.

She looked up at me—
same eyes, carrying the same fire—
but softer, untouched by the weight of the real world.

"Do we still write stories? " she asked,
her voice laced with curiosity and hope.
I nodded, not giving her much detail,
just a smile.

She tilted her head.
"And the one on Wattpad? "

I swallowed.
"It didn't sound like me anymore.
I let it go."
"Did that hurt? "
"It felt like betraying a version of me
I didn't know how to love."

"We write poetry now, " I shared,
as warmth bloomed in my chest,
remembering the many who'd been touched by the words.
She smiled—like that was enough.

I wanted to warn her—
about the nights she'd cry into her Bible,
the exams that would break her bones,
the people she'd pray for who'd never stay.

But I didn't.
I just held her face like sacred scripture
and whispered,
"You make it.
And you still love like the beginning."

She reached for my hair, curious,
twirling a loc between her fingers.
"You finally did it? "
I laughed, "Yeah. Grew roots—literally."

She traced the edge of my Bible,
then looked up at me like a secret.
"Do we still keep the Sabbath? "
I held her hand.
"Always. Even when it's hard."

She told me about her dreams—
writing stories about love in far-off lands,
where the girls were wild and loyal,
and the moon meant more than light.

She spoke of creating from nothing—
a designer who teaches others,
a mother to the motherless.
Dreams I nearly abandoned.
I felt the flood behind my eyes.
But before I could respond, she fired off more questions.

"Did we ever go to China? "
I paused. "Not yet. But it's in motion."
She clapped the way only children do—
like the world is still on their side.

I asked her what she feared most.
She whispered,
"Forgetting who God made me to be."
And I—I broke.
Because some days, I nearly had.

But she hugged me like I was still her hero—
like I hadn't doubted, hadn't fallen,
hadn't whispered I can't to God
more times than I dared to count.

She placed something in my hand—
a scrunchie she made from leftover yarn.
"You'll sell these one day, " she beamed,
"and people will smile because you made beauty."

I laughed through a choke of tears.
She always believed in the softest things—
ginger tea, Sabbath songs,
and the power of just waking up.

"Promise me something? " she said,
eyes wide, like my answer held the stars.

"Promise you won't keep shrinking to fit silence.
That you'll let your poems scream if they must
—even if no one claps."

I took her tiny pinkie in mine.
"I promise to speak like fire, " I said.
"To write like rain.
To love like God didn't make me from dust,
but from purpose."

And before she faded,
she kissed my cheek and whispered,
"You're still my favorite ending."

~sharonnamzi