Love Letters to All Versions of Myself in the Quantum

Welcome—first Substack post. Not overthinking it. Just being.

Where do I start? I spent the last two years working through major life changes and social anxiety. I did all the things—therapy, breathwork, walks, EMDR, the gym—and they helped, but nothing ever quite stuck. I’d go out and try to be with people, but I’d leave with so many intrusive thoughts that it just wasn’t worth it. Two hours of being social meant two days of soothing myself back to “normal.”

Honestly, my life was pretty good before those two years. Well, except for that whole pandemic. Then the breakdown and anxiety hit, leading me to move my business from LA back to my hometown in SF. I thought it would be better, but I was wrong. My social anxiety got worse. Much worse.

I didn’t think I’d make it out the other side.

Long story short—I did.

After a lot of work, I was making progress. And hey, progress is progress. But I still had bouts of intrusive thoughts and anxiety. I knew it was coming from past versions of myself, parts of me that had been buried for too long.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that all those past versions of me weren’t holding me back—they were guiding me toward something greater.

I finally decided to try something new. I made a promise to myself: anytime I felt hurt, anxious, ashamed, or in pain, I would stop and sit with it. I wouldn’t distract, ignore, or abandon myself in that moment. I’d just be with it.

And let me tell you—it happened a lot.

The more I sat with the pain, the more curious I became about which part of me needed attention. Slowly, they started to open up.

Some mornings, I’d explain emotions to my inner child because no one ever let him ask questions. In the afternoons, I’d talk to my teenage self, telling him it’s okay to like guys and that he will find love one day. Until then, I promised to give him all the love he needed. At night, I’d end up on the bathroom floor crying with my twenty-year-old self, who felt so much shame for leaving home. I had to sit with him, let it all out, and remind him that leaving was the best choice he could have made. He was confused and he needed to explore to figure out who he really was.

I did this for months—living in the present and the past—healing what was behind me so I could finally imagine a better future ahead of me.

As the days went on, the past didn’t come up as much. But I’d still stop anytime I felt a past version of me needed help. I kept wondering: Why do I have to keep doing this? Why don’t they understand?

Then it hit me.

It’s not that they don’t understand—they don’t trust me. Why should they? I’d spent 44 years ignoring them, numbing them, distracting myself, or convincing myself I’d already done “the work,” so it couldn’t possibly be that again.

Trust is built through little promises you keep.

I had to keep showing up until they believed it. I promised them I wouldn’t leave.

How could I?

They were me.

I finally understood what it means when people say, You can’t run from your past.

I couldn’t move forward because all these versions of me were stuck. And that meant I was stuck too. They weren’t coming for me to shame me, or make me feel bad—they were asking for kindness, care, and compassion.

Something shifted during those months of showing up for them. I started to ask questions because I’d forgotten who they were and how they moved in the world. I noticed their quirks, insecurities, and talents—and even laughed with them. I’d explain how the things they thought were flaws had actually led to incredible adventures and experiences they couldn’t have imagined.

The more I got curious about them, the more they got curious about me.

I hugged them and held them so tight it brought tears to my eyes. I became the caretaker and protector they always needed. I didn’t truly understand what integration meant until that moment. Integration is coherence. It’s living in harmony with those parts of yourself.

People talk about shadow work, but it’s not something you can just intellectualize or have one profound healing experience and be done with. It’s the practice of living with those parts every day.

They did their best to survive. And I am grateful for them—every single day.

To stay connected and free up space for living life in the present—I started to write. Later, I began recording voice memos and called them “Love Letters to All Versions of Myself in the Quantum.”

At first, it was just a check-in to see what any version needed. Then I started sharing more of my day with them. Through that process, I got to know my past selves which helped me understand my present self better. And, in real time, I got to meet the version of me I was becoming.

And I really like this version.

I realized that I hadn’t been spiraling in anxiety, or what I call “entropy cycles,” because I was broken—it was because I wasn’t present. Showing up for those parts every day may have taken me back to the past, but I was speaking to what was happening with me in the present.

It became a mindful practice that healed me in profound ways. I was so loving to all versions of myself that I naturally became more loving to others.

That’s who I am.

That’s who all versions of me have always been.

I just didn’t know how to be it.

I still write those love letters, and I encourage you to try it too. You’d be surprised who you meet when you write “Love Letters to All Versions of Myself in the Quantum.”

But that’s a story for another time.

I think I finally know what it means to be whole.

I wish that for everyone.

It’s a wonderful place to be.

Just being is enough—today, and always.

What versions of yourself are waiting to be heard?