Letters I Never Sent: To the girl who only wanted to write

There was a time I had a job I didn’t enjoy.
The workload was heavy. The atmosphere toxic.
I was a grown-up in a place that felt too grown-up.

Most of my colleagues were older,
a different generation
one that said no to change
more often than yes.
One that offered toxic positivity
when all I needed was silent empathy.

There were days I sat at my desk, trying not to cry.
Other days, when my friend still worked one floor up,
we met for lunch just to hug,
to soothe each other through tears
we shouldn’t have had to shed at all.

It sounds strange now.
Looking back, it almost feels dramatic.
Like we were prisoners.
Trapped in a job we didn’t love.
But I know now:
It was never that simple.
It never is.

Quitting isn’t easy when you’re in the thick of it.
A job means a salary.
A salary means rent.
Rent means survival.
So you stay, even when it chips away at you.

I remember those drawn blinds,
the fluorescent lights too bright,
too artificial for a sunlit day.

I remember shrinking.
Closing my door.
Craving to be alone in a building full of people.

And in that shadowed office,
when I couldn’t breathe,
when the world pressed too hard,
I escaped into the only thing that still felt like mine.
I wrote.

Sometimes it was a story I’d already finished.
Sometimes it was a sentence.
Sometimes it was just me
rereading a paragraph a hundred times,
just to remember that I existed.

And I dreamed.
Of a job where all I did was write.
My own stories. A book. A screenplay. Anything.
As long as it was mine.

I was in my early twenties.
And even now, a decade later,
I remember that office like it’s still around me.

I wish I could step into that room.
Sit beside that girl.
Wrap my arms around her.

Tell her:
I love you.
I see you.
You’re not weak for wanting more.
You’re not wrong for feeling trapped.
And no, it won’t happen overnight,
but you’ll get out.
And you’ll get there.

Because now?
I have the job we dreamed of.
I write.
All day.
Sometimes stories I’m assigned.
Sometimes stories I choose.
But they’re mine.
And I love it.

Even now, writing this, I’m emotional.
Because maybe someone
the universe, God,
the girl I was
whispering to the stars,
maybe someone listened.

And I want her to know:
You made it.

You stayed.
You held on.
You chose not to disappear.
You were strong, even when you didn’t want to be.
And I am so, so proud of you.

If I could say one thing, it would be this:

We did it.
And we’re not done yet.
Because we’re writers.
And words… they’ll never stop us.

Photo: Pavel Danilyuk via Pexels