The Version of Me That Might Have Been
The me that was one decision away from a totally different life. The me that quit too early, and that stayed too long but never spoke up, that burned out quietly. They all still exist; I feel it.
Sometimes I think about all the versions of me that almost became something else.
The me that was one decision away from a totally different life.
The me that quit too early, and that stayed too long but never spoke up.
The me that burned out quietly.
They all still exist in some parallel draft of reality.
And somehow, I still feel them.
I see the ghosts of old futures.
You never think about how many futures you killed just by choosing one path; at least not in a dramatic way.
Just in the normal human way.
One job yes erased ten job nos.
One relationship ended erased a life that could have existed.
One move, one post, one message not sent.
Sometimes that weight hits out of nowhere.
Not as regret really, but more like a quiet recognition.
Like standing next to yourself in a room you never lived in.
Survival doesn’t always feel heroic.
A lot of us did not survive by being brave, we did it by numbing. By shrinking. By masking.
By adapting so well we forgot what our original shape was.
That does not make you weak, it’s quite the opposite; it makes you practiced.
You learned how to stay alive in weather that was not built for you.
That is not nothing.
You are allowed to grieve people you never became.
We talk about grief like it only applies to death, but identity loss deserves its own type of funeral.
There’s the artist who stopped creating.
And the kid who trusted too easily.
The version of you that still believed everything would work out cleanly.
You do not have to hate your present self to honor those versions.
You can thank them for getting you here.
And still miss them.
Both can be true.
The ‘night’ versions of us.
The night is strange like that.
It brings out the archived selves, the quiet kid, the reckless teen.
The hopeful ignorance you once had is what made you the think the world was bigger than it turned out to be.
At night, the volume lowers enough to hear that version of you again.
That is not weakness.
That is your memory surfacing.
A soft truth in that you are not behind, and are certainly not broken.
Built from every ‘almost.’
You are not late, you are layered.
You are still becoming.
Even if the becoming looks slower now and feels less cinematic, it still counts.
Tonight, try this (you think of it as a gentle habit!):
Think of one past version of you at any age, any era.
And say one sentence to them out loud or quietly. Your choice on that part.
Something simple like “I see what you carried.” or “Thank you for surviving, I promise that it’s enough for now” or even just “I am here now.”
If you feel inclined to keep talking, go for it. If not, let the air speak.
Much love,
Jake 💙
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This hit hard; especially the part about grieving the versions of ourselves we outgrew.
I’ve been writing about that same quiet reckoning in "My Accountability Partner," where the old selves become teachers instead of ghosts.
I’ve been unpacking more of that in my posts lately.
Which past version of you feels closest these days?
This hit hard; especially the part about grieving the versions of ourselves we outgrew.
I’ve been writing about that same quiet reckoning in "My Accountability Partner," where the old selves become teachers instead of ghosts.
I’ve been unpacking more of that in my posts lately.
Which past version of you feels closest these days?