Chapter Thirty-Two: Letter to My Younger Self

I thought home was something I’d build with places and people. What I missed was the oldest address of all: the child inside who never stopped waiting at the door. Before I go any farther, I need to go back and invite him in.

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Today I had a call with my sister. We were talking about our shared memories of childhood—the hidden, unspoken pieces of growing up in a family where our parents were still kids themselves. My mom was eighteen when I was born. My dad was twenty. By the time she was twenty-two, she’d had six children. Both of them worked constantly just to keep us afloat. Day-to-day life, we mostly improvised.

I was lucky both sets of grandparents lived nearby—they often helped or let me stay with them when things got chaotic. But most of the time, we were left to invent our own version of growing up.

Years later, in therapy, I began to understand how much that shaped me. As the eldest—only three years older than the triplets who came next—I grew up fast. Even if it wasn’t said aloud, it was clear I was expected to look after them. That quiet responsibility settled into my bones and never really left.

It makes sense now that I ended up on a path of reluctant leadership. I never set out to be a manager or a leader; I wanted to be a nerd—to code, to tinker, to fix things. But I kept rising into roles where I helped others become better versions of themselves.

In my friend group, I was often the “dad figure.” When we travelled, I was the planner—the one who booked the places, made the lists, hosted the gatherings. Every year I’d organise Thanksgiving or Christmas. I wasn’t the only responsible one, but I often became the organiser, the stabiliser. And I liked it—though part of what I liked was control. Being in charge lowered my anxiety. If I managed everything, I could make sure it was done the right way—the safe way. But it left me drained.

The adult part of me—the one that plans, budgets, schedules—took over everything. It filled every cell of my brain. I worked multiple jobs in college to pay tuition, then loans, then to climb toward some version of stability. What I never learned—not really—were the quieter adult skills most people absorb as kids. How to rest. How to play. How to ask for help. I learned those later, through partners or roommates, usually by failing first.

In therapy, someone recommended Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents. It wasn’t a revelation so much as a remembering. Every page described the quiet ache I’d been carrying—the feeling of having to be the grown-up long before I was ready. It said that when you grow up around emotional absence, you often become the caretaker—the one who holds everything together, who learns control before safety, logic before love. Reading it felt like meeting the part of me that had been waiting my whole life to be seen.

When you don’t get to be a carefree kid—when you’re always watching the adults hold the world together—you never learn how to feel safe enough to rebel. And rebellion, paradoxically, is how you figure out who you are. Because I didn’t have that safety net, I didn’t test boundaries. I learned to retreat instead. My safest spaces were imaginary—hiding inside video games, or in fantasy books, or running through the backyard pretending I was a wizard. That was my way to play: alone, unseen, quiet.

As I got older, that part of me shut down. I told myself I had to buckle down if I ever wanted to make it out of my hometown—not because I didn’t love my family, but because I didn’t belong. I felt like a fish out of water.

Therapy eventually gave me language for what had gone missing: that I have an inner child—the part that wants to be creative, curious, and free, but needs to feel safe to do so. And I also have the adult me—the one who pays the bills, books the travel, organises the life. Adult-me has run in hyper-drive; child-me has hidden. When the balance tips too far, I retreat—locking myself away with games or books, drowning out the world. Looking back, that was my coping mechanism. It happened whenever child-me was crying for attention and adult-me was too overwhelmed to listen.

I realised I’d never really let the two of them talk to each other. So when I was talking with my sister today, I told her something that’s helped me: to actually speak to that inner child—to invite them into the room, to listen to what they’ve been trying to say. I said, “You can try it too. Write a letter. Start the conversation.” And then, as often happens when I try to help someone else, I realised I needed to do the same.

So here goes.

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A Letter to Little Steve

When I was a kid, my grandmother used to call me Little Steve. My dad was Big Steve, so the name made sense—but I hated it. I wanted to be seen as my own person. I wanted to be Steven. Now that Dad’s gone, I’ve become both: big and little. So this letter is from one to the other.

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I See You

Hi, Little Steve. I see you. I see how you sometimes sit curled in the corner of my mind, crying and alone. I see how you pace restlessly while I distract myself—scrolling, working, planning, filling every space so I don’t have to hear you. You’ve been trying to get my attention for years. I kept handing you distractions. I’m sorry.

I want you to know you matter. You’re welcome in my life. Take up more space, not less. When I laugh, sing for no reason, try something new, smile at a stranger—I can feel you. You’re there, guiding me. You’re the one reminding me that life isn’t just about survival—it’s about wonder.

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You’re Safe With Me

I know it hasn’t always been easy for you to feel safe. You didn’t always know if anyone was really looking out for you. But I need you to know something now:

You are safe with me. I will always protect you. I will always care for you. I love you.

It took me a long time to say those words and mean them. But I do. You’ve changed my life. You’ve helped me rediscover joy and curiosity—and reminded me that play is sacred. When I follow your lead, the world softens.

I’m still learning to listen. Still learning to balance you and me—creativity and responsibility, wonder and order. This whole journey—the tarot, the Shimmer, quitting my job, walking into the unknown—has been part of that learning. Chaotic, yes, but also quieter than I’ve ever known. Without the noise of constant work, there’s finally space for your voice. Sometimes that silence feels like standing on the edge of something vast—not frightening, just raw. And in that space, I’m finally hearing you.

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Let’s Play Again

Every time you break through—when I smile unexpectedly, when I feel brave enough to try something new—my life expands. And yet I notice this strange fear: I’m not afraid of being an adult. I’m afraid of being silly. I can handle the hard things—bills, logistics, planning. But the simple, spontaneous things? Starting a conversation. Dancing for no reason. Saying yes just because it’s fun. Those are what scare me most—and they’re what you love most.

So, Little Steve, I’m asking you for help. Let’s work together. Let’s find balance—you bringing play, me bringing safety. Let’s build a life where we both belong.

Right now, I can see you—small, nervous, but full of light. I’m kneeling down, opening my arms, giving you the biggest hug. You don’t have to hide anymore. You’re safe. I’ve got you—now and forever. I want to see you run and laugh and make a mess. I want to hear your ideas, your songs, your dreams.

Because I’m proud of you—not for the adult achievements, but for the quiet courage you’ve carried all this time. You’ve been in the background of every beautiful thing I’ve built—in the music, in these words, in Aura itself. Your fingerprints are everywhere. And I’m grateful.

I see a future for us—you laughing freely, me keeping the ground steady. You reminding me not to take life too seriously; me making sure you always feel safe. I’m sorry it took me so long to write this. But better late than never.

So here’s to our future together—a life shared between wonder and wisdom. I love you, Little Steve. Come home.

Sincerely,
Big Steve

—and as the child in me exhaled, another voice stirred: the past self who once wrote down a map for exactly moments like this.