Dear younger me,

You keep waiting for someone to say it's okay. I'm here to tell you, it was always okay. You didn't ruin anything by being yourself. One day, the people who matter will love you louder than the ones who didn't.

I wish I could find you after school, sitting on the back step with your socks pulled halfway down, picking at the scab on your knee because you fell over at lunchtime and pretended it didn't hurt. Your schoolbag is still by the door, there's a squashed sandwich in your lunchbox, and you've spent the whole walk home replaying something somebody said. You probably can't even explain why it upset you so much. You just know that everyone else seems to have been given a set of instructions you somehow missed.

I remember how carefully you watched the other kids. Who they sat next to, how they laughed, what they wore, the things they could say without anyone making a fuss. You were good at figuring out what people expected. Too good, actually. You learned when to join in, when to keep quiet, when to laugh along even though the joke had landed somewhere uncomfortable. And then you'd get home, shut your bedroom door, put on a record or turn up the radio, and finally stop paying attention to everyone else's face.

Here's what I need you to understand. Some people are going to disappoint you. People you thought would understand. People who said they loved you, right up until loving you required them to rethink something. It's going to hurt, and you'll spend far too much time wondering whether you could have handled things differently. Please don't waste years trying to make yourself easier to love. You've already done enough of that. You've spent enough afternoons wishing you could swap places with another kid, enough nights staring at the ceiling rehearsing conversations that never happen, enough birthdays blowing out candles and keeping the real wish to yourself.

And one day you'll have people around your kitchen table who know exactly who you are. They'll argue about what music to put on, steal the last bit of dessert, complain about the dishes and tell terrible jokes. Someone will call from the other room asking where you've put the scissors. You'll be laughing so hard you can barely answer, and nobody will be thinking about whether you're different. You'll just be there, in the middle of it all, making a mess of dinner with people who love you.

I know that doesn't sound particularly extraordinary. That's exactly why I wanted to tell you.

With love, Your older self