I remember being a little girl, thinking about who I would become one day. Sometimes I get this sense that time is not quite linear. Maybe trauma does that. Like certain moments don’t stay in the past the way they’re “supposed to.” They fold inward. They repeat. They echo through the body more than they pass through it. And suddenly, you’re not just remembering something—you’re inside it again, even if the calendar says otherwise. It makes me wonder if healing isn’t about moving forward in a straight line, but about gently untangling the places where time got stuck. Meeting those younger versions of ourselves where they still are, instead of only where we wish they had been. And maybe becoming isn’t something that happens once. Maybe it’s something we keep returning to, across different versions of ourselves, until all of them get to feel like they made it through. I still carry that girl with me. I think Chicken Little would be proud of the woman I have become.