When I started restoring my old blog posts, I thought it would be a simple project — copy, paste, clean up some formatting. Get things back in order. I didn’t expect it to feel like grief.
But that’s what it’s been. Grief — disguised as nostalgia, tucked between old sentences and half-forgotten stories.
Every post is a time capsule. A snapshot of who I used to be, what my life used to look like, and the people who used to be in it. I’ve reread pages I wrote when I was falling in love. When I was planning a wedding. When I was building a home, starting a family, imagining a future I thought I’d grow old inside of.
That life doesn’t exist anymore.
Some of those people don’t either — not really, not in my world.
And so I’ve been reading my own words with a lump in my throat. Crying at memories I didn’t expect to hit so hard. Laughing at old versions of myself I forgot existed. Grieving the woman who wrote those posts… and the life she was writing her way into.
I miss her sometimes.
I miss how simple her dreams were. I miss how certain she was. I miss the way she loved, and the way she believed things would last forever.
It’s strange to read the archives of your own life and realize how much of it is no longer true. It’s like visiting a house you used to live in. You still know the layout, but the furniture’s all gone. You still recognize the rooms, but the people who made them feel like home aren’t there anymore.
But here’s what I’m holding on to:
I still have the words.
Even if the life has changed, the words are mine. They mattered then, and they still matter now — not because they predicted the future, but because they captured a moment. A feeling. A version of me that existed, and lived, and loved, and wrote it all down.
I’m rebuilding this blog. Slowly. Painfully. Tenderly.
And in doing so, I think I’m also rebuilding myself.
This post is part of my New Chapters series — reflections on rebuilding, resilience, and writing new parts of my story.
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