A Letter to My Inner Child

Dear Little Me,

I see you.

I see the small, quiet girl trembling in the corner of a crowded room—the girl who flinched at raised voices, who lowered her eyes because the world had taught her that speaking could be dangerous. I see the girl who learned early that love was conditional, that obedience was survival, and that fear was the only way to stay safe.

I see how tired you are.

From the earliest days, you were taught that suffering was holy. Pain was not something to question. Pain was proof of devotion. At home, love was hard to find. My stepmother tolerated us, carrying burdens and resentments that were never ours to carry. Their silence spoke volumes. Their eyes weighed heavily on us. You learned quickly that the safest thing to do was disappear—to be small, to be invisible.

And yet, even in that fear, your heart longed for love.

At madrasa, the lessons were no gentler. You memorized the Qur’an, repeating words you could not comprehend—words that sounded beautiful but felt distant and unreachable. When you stumbled, when your voice faltered, the punishment came swiftly. Hands struck. Backs were whipped. Voices yelled. Shame followed. Fear rooted itself in your bones: fear of failing God, fear of failing others, fear of failing yourself.

And then there was hayaa.

You were told that it was shyness, modesty, a sign of godliness. But it was more than that. It was a shyness born of fear. If a girl did not have hayaa, we were told, she was not of God. It made your body tense, your heart anxious, your mind restless. Even now, as an adult, I can still feel its shadow creeping into my decisions, whispering caution where there should be freedom.

And yet, little one, I remember your longing.

I remember watching my friends—little Christian girls—walk to church for something called mafundisho, lessons that happened every evening. I would sometimes follow them quietly, slipping behind their laughter and songs. I did not understand everything they were learning, but I understood how it felt to be there—safe, loved, seen. For a few precious hours, I felt what it might be like for God to be near—not distant or punishing, but gentle, tender, alive.

When my family discovered I had been there, the punishment came. Madrasa became even harsher. Children laughed at us, mocked us, shamed us. Fear became sharper, louder. Tenderness became forbidden. Curiosity became rebellion. Obedience became survival.

So I buried hope. I buried longing. I buried every thought that whispered that God could be gentle.

Years passed, and I carried you with me.

I grew into adulthood with your wounds stitched into my heart. I became a mother, and I realized how deeply fear had shaped me—how it shaped the way I mothered, the way I spoke, the way I measured myself against invisible standards. Anxiety visited me often. Shadows of hayaa still whispered.

And then, in adulthood, I met Jesus.

Not in a blinding flash or a dramatic moment, but softly, gently, personally.

He met me where I was—not as a rule breaker needing punishment, but as a child needing healing. He entered the fear I had carried for decades. He met the little girl who learned to disappear. He met the woman who still flinched at her own voice.

He did not ask me to die for Him. He died for me.

“But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

Jesus began to heal the parts of me that had never known safety. He held the child I had buried—the girl who trembled at every raised hand, who lowered her eyes at every command, who learned fear in the name of holiness. He showed her that her curiosity, her longing, her questions were holy. He showed her that love is stronger than fear. He whispered over my bruised heart, “I see you. You are mine. You are beloved.”

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

Little one, can you hear Him? Can you feel His gentle hands touching the parts of you that fear has never allowed to rest? The Holy Spirit is breathing courage into the anxious places, peace into the trembling places, and love into the lonely, forgotten corners of your heart.

It is okay to feel what you feel.

It is okay to be angry—to grieve the love you never received, to mourn the tenderness you were denied. It is okay to fear, to cry. God can handle your fear. Jesus can hold your sorrow. The Holy Spirit can meet you in the ache and fill it with peace.

“The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit.” Psalm 34:18

Even now, as a mother, I am learning to untangle the fear that hayaa planted in me. I am learning to raise my children in freedom, in gentleness, in love. And the little girl inside me is learning alongside me—learning to laugh again, to speak without trembling, to know that she is safe, that she is seen, that she is known, and that she is fully and completely loved.

Jesus is amazing because He does not just rescue the present. He rescues the past too. He reaches back into the deepest corners of our childhood pain and whispers, “I am with you. You are not alone. You are mine.” He walks us out of fear into courage, out of shame into joy, out of silence into freedom.

Little one, hear this. You do not have to survive Him anymore.

He has already died for you. He has already risen for you. He is already enough for you.

And He is calling you forward—step by step, breath by breath, moment by moment. He will teach you to love yourself the way He loves you. He will teach you to love your children without fear. He will teach you to live without shame.

Dear little me, hear this: I see you. I love you. And Jesus

loves you even more. He is not done with us—still walking beside us, still healing, still teaching, still whispering, “You are mine.”

Forever yours,

The Woman You Have Become