What I Miss About the Old Me (And Why I Let Him Go Anyway)

Sometimes I catch myself missing him.

The old me.

The one who could walk into a room and command it with false confidence. The one who could turn pain into punchlines, charm into a smokescreen, and guilt into gasoline. That version of me could talk his way out of anything — except the truth.

He was reckless, sure. But he was also magnetic. 
People liked him. He knew how to disappear in a crowd, how to hide in plain sight. And for a while, that worked. Until it didn’t.

The old me knew how to survive. But he didn’t know how to live. 
He burned bridges and called it freedom. He numbed everything that hurt and wondered why nothing ever healed.

And still… there are days I miss him.

Not because I want to be him again, but because I understand him now.

I know what he was trying to protect. 
I know why he lied. 
I know why he drank. 
And I know why he stayed stuck — because stuck felt safer than facing the grief underneath it all.

But I let him go.

Not out of shame. 
Out of mercy.

He got me through some dark places, but he couldn’t take me any further. 
So I laid him down. And I started over.

Some days, when the healing is hard and the quiet feels heavy, I miss the chaos he could stir up like a firestorm. 
But then I remember: he didn’t bring peace. He brought escape.

And I’ve learned to stop worshipping escape.

If you’re holding onto your old self because you’re scared of who you’ll be without him — I get it. 
But hear me: You’re not betraying who you were by growing. 
You’re honoring him by becoming who he never thought he could be.