By Savannah Ford | Broadcast Reporter
It’s easier to extend grace to people who hurt us than it is to look back and forgive the person we used to be. I’ve spent years wishing I could rewrite certain moments in my life, the ones where I said the wrong thing, stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken up or believed I wasn’t enough. But the hardest version of forgiveness isn’t about someone else’s mistakes. It’s about your own.
When I was 11, I convinced myself that being thin would finally make me feel worthy. What started as “eating healthy” quickly became an obsession that nearly took my life. I was praised for my discipline, told I looked “healthy,” and all the while, I was disappearing — first from myself, then from my family and finally from the world around me. The little girl who once danced in the kitchen and laughed too loudly slowly vanished into numbers and control.
Most days, I’d hide alone in my room for hours. I didn’t want to be seen, and if my friends noticed I was slipping away, I ran from them. I pushed everyone out. It wasn’t because I didn’t love them; it was because I didn’t think I deserved to be loved back. I was 11 years old. I was so young. And I thought vanishing would hurt less than being seen in my pain.
I used to hate that version of me. I blamed her for the friendships I lost, for the nights I cried alone, for the way I flinched when someone tried to care. Even as I grew older and recovered, I carried her mistakes with me like a shadow. I’d tell people I was fine, but inside, I still felt like that same broken girl, too damaged to deserve love or peace.
But here’s what I’ve learned: You can’t heal a version of yourself you refuse to forgive. You can’t expect to grow while holding a grudge against the person who was just trying to survive.
For me, forgiveness started small. It felt like talking to my younger self out loud. I’d look at an old photo and say, “You didn’t know better. You were doing your best.” It felt weird at first, but it helped me see her not as a mistake, but as someone who needed compassion. Slowly, I stopped wishing I could erase her and started thanking her for getting me here.
The most significant part of forgiving her has been learning to do what she couldn’t — letting people in. I’ve started allowing others to notice when I’m not OK and admitting when something’s wrong instead of pretending it’s not.
It’s hard to open up, and sometimes it still feels scary. But I know my younger self would have given anything for that, to be seen before it was too late. She would’ve survived a little easier if she’d known that asking for help wasn’t a weakness.
We all have a younger me who made choices we regret. Maybe it’s the version of you who dated the wrong person, stayed silent when you should’ve spoken or tried too hard to please everyone. We spend so much time punishing that person, replaying their decisions, labeling them as weak, stupid or selfish, when what they really needed was understanding.
That version of you didn’t ruin your life. They built the foundation for the person you’re becoming. Every mistake, every heartbreak, every insecurity turned into something that taught me more than perfection ever could.
At Baylor, where so many of us strive for perfection in grades, relationships and faith, it’s easy to feel like we have to prove we’ve grown constantly. But real growth isn’t about pretending your past didn’t happen. It’s about owning it. It’s about saying, “Yeah, I went through that,” and letting it make you softer instead of harder.
Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean excusing what happened. It means accepting it. It’s saying, “I hurt people, and I’ve learned from it,” or “I lost myself, but I’m finding my way back.” Self-forgiveness is a kind of bravery; it asks you to stand face-to-face with your flaws and love yourself anyway.
These days, when old memories resurface, I try to respond with grace instead of shame. I remind myself that the girl who once hid in her room is the same girl who now tells stories, connects with people and finds beauty in imperfection. That shift didn’t happen overnight. It happened one gentle thought at a time.
If you’ve ever looked back and cringed at who you used to be, trust me, you’re not alone. You don’t have to stay trapped in that version of yourself. You’re allowed to outgrow them, to change your mind, to start over. The parts of you that once felt messy or broken are just proof that you’ve lived, and that you’re still becoming someone new.
So talk kindly to your past self. Forgive them for not knowing what you know now. Thank them for surviving what they didn’t think they could. Because when you start to see your younger self through love instead of judgment, something beautiful happens: you stop being at war with your own heart.
Forgiveness isn’t just for others. It’s for you. It’s for the person you were, the person you are and the person you’re still becoming. And when you finally offer that forgiveness, you don’t just free your past, you free your future.
