I Sometimes Miss My Most F*cked-Up Self

The weird nostalgia for who you were when you didn't give a single fuck.

There are moments, quiet and unexpected, when nostalgia creeps in — not for a place or a moment in time, but for a version of yourself you thought you'd outgrown. You wouldn't admit it freely, perhaps even deny it if asked directly, but sometimes you secretly miss the person you were during your worst moments.

That version of you was reckless and wild, pain wrapped around your shoulders like an old familiar coat. Life hurt, yes, but it was simpler. You navigated your days guided by raw instinct, less concerned with what anyone else thought because, frankly, you'd stopped giving a fuck entirely. There was liberation in that recklessness, a strange sort of peace in surrendering to chaos.

Now, stability feels like a prize — but also like a cage. You've learned to manage expectations, curate responses, carefully choose your words and reactions. You smile when you're supposed to smile, work when you're supposed to work, rest when you're supposed to rest. But occasionally, in your quietest moments, you remember that person who did none of that — who didn't even try.

Why do we romanticize our own darkness? Perhaps it's because pain, at least, felt undeniably real. When you didn't care, when everything seemed to be unraveling, you were freed from the exhausting charade of perfection. You were messy and authentic, unpredictable and alive. The clarity of rock-bottom had its own dark allure.

Missing that self isn't about missing suffering — it's about missing authenticity without filter, freedom without calculation. It's yearning for a simpler internal dialogue, when "fuck it" felt like a mantra rather than a risk.

But maybe the lesson here isn't to return to who you were, but to reclaim what she had: a fearless authenticity that didn’t need approval, that breathed freely without the heavy armor of expectation. Perhaps what you miss most isn't the chaos itself, but the brave heart at the center of the storm — a heart you carry still, quietly waiting to be heard again.