The Ember That Would Not Go Out

A Letter to the Fiery Girl I Once Was

Dear You,

Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.

You had no idea who you were.

Not really.

You didn’t know the fire you carried.
You didn’t know the lineage you would one day untangle.
You didn’t know that the very thing that made you “too much”
was the thing that would become your compass.

You were molded into a box.

Not because you were small.
But because you were bright.

The women before you needed safety.
They needed certainty.
They needed to know you would be taken care of.

Passion was secondary.
Joy was negotiable.
Aliveness was risky.

“Is she safe?”
That was the question.

And so you learned to fit.

You learned to soften your edges.
You learned to bank the fire.
You learned to dim just enough so the room could exhale.

But here is what I want you to know:

The fire never went out.

It became an ember.

Buried under conditioning.
Buried under responsibility.
Buried under expectation.

But it glowed.

That quiet nudge —
“Life doesn’t feel quite right.”

That was you.

Not dissatisfaction.
Not rebellion.

Memory.

You remembered something your mind could not name.

You remembered that you were not meant to live contained.

And here is the part you could not have known then:

It unfolded exactly as it needed to.

You were not late.
You were not lost.
You were not wrong for staying where you were.

You were ripening.

You were gathering strength.
You were building the nervous system that could one day hold the fullness of you.

Because fire without grounding can burn wildly.

But fire with coherence?

It illuminates.

And now —
I stand here.

Not to rescue you.
Not to apologize to you.
But to bring you forward.

Front and center.

You are not the past.
You are a golden thread in my tapestry.

You are shimmer.
You are possibility.
You are the gypsy heart that never wanted walls.

And I am no longer asking you to be smaller.

I am asking you to lead.

Lead with your curiosity.
Lead with your joy.
Lead with your fierce tenderness.
Lead with that wide-eyed belief that life is bigger than the box.

The elders wanted you safe.

I want you alive.

And here is the miracle:

I am safe now.

Safe enough to let you burn brightly.
Safe enough to let you be seen.
Safe enough to love you exactly as you were.

The tears you feel as I write this?

That is you stepping forward.

Not as a reckless girl.
But as integrated fire.

It was never about fitting in.

It was about timing.

And now?

Now is your time.

We take the world not with force —
but with coherence.

We walk not as rebellion —
but as reclamation.

You are not too much.

You are exactly enough.

And I love you.

— Babs