For the Little Round Ones

I saw a little girl in Aldi yesterday. She was laughing, playing with her dad. A little round, a little radiant- and for a second, I saw myself.

Not in her pain- because she looked happy. But in her joy. In her softness. In the way she moved through the world like she still believed she was allowed to.

And I didn’t want to project my story onto her. I just wanted to protect her joy-quietly- in case the world ever tried to take it.

Because I remember being her age. And I remember what it felt like to wonder if I was too much. To tug on my clothes that didn’t fall “right.” To hear silence when other girls got compliments and I didn’t. To carry softness like a shame I hadn’t even earned.

And I just hope she never has to feel that. But if she ever does-

I hope she remembers that her body isn’t a problem. Her softness isn’t a flow. Her joy isn’t conditional.

I used to struggle but now I move through the world whispering back to the version of me who didn’t know how to love herself yet: “We’re doing this for the little round ones.” So she knows she was never too much. Never not enough. And always deserving of love.