She Used to Be Me

I'm supposed to be working, but I took a break to have a croissant with dates and some flavor that seems to be cinnamon (a flavor I'm trying to cultivate a love for), coupled with a cup of black tea. Then a song rolling through my playlist pops and gets me a bit emotional. Because... because she used to be mine. She used to be me. And that's never going to be reclaimed.

Innocence has this peculiar way of slipping through your fingers before you realize it's gone. It's not a moment, not a loud, dramatic exit. It’s in the quiet accumulation of little heartbreaks, compromises, and moments of growing up. One day, you’re standing there, drinking your black tea—gazing into the air, realizing the person you used to be has faded into the background of all that you’ve had to become.

Sara Bareilles’ "She Used to Be Mine" has this uncanny ability to take me back to places I thought I’d left behind. I’m struck by how much of my innocence was tied to dreams—dreams so simple and bright they didn’t need to be overthought or over planned. Back then, things seemed possible in ways that feel like a distant memory now.

Some parts of me, I know she’d cry for. Others, I think she’d be proud of. I hear people say they strive to please their younger selves, but I just haven’t quite talked to her yet. The thought alone of having a sit-down with her causes me a heartache. Would she understand why I made the choices I did? Would she forgive me for the pieces of her that I let go? Or would she simply mourn the innocence lost along the way?

But here’s the thing about innocence: it doesn’t just leave; it transforms. It hides itself in the cracks of who we’ve become. It’s there, somewhere, in the tiny rebellions we make to eat a croissant mid-work or to lose ourselves in a song. It’s in the moments when we feel like we’re letting go of the weight of adulthood, even if only for a few minutes.

Still, there’s an ache in realizing that who you were and who you are now are not the same—and they’ll never be. The distance feels unbridgeable, even if you still catch glimpses of her every now and then. She’s the person who believed the world could be made right with cinnamon and black tea and the pursuit of dreams. She’s the girl who held onto things a little too tightly and didn’t yet know what it meant to lose herself in the compromises of life.

I’ve often wondered: what would she think of me? Would she be proud, or would she mourn the pieces of herself that no longer shine as brightly? Maybe she’d tell me to stop and listen to the music, to feel what I’m feeling now, and to realize that, even if innocence is a chapter I can’t return to, the story isn’t over. There’s room to create something new—something beautiful in its own way.

So, here’s to her. To the one who used to be mine. To the innocence I can’t reclaim but will always remember. And here’s to the person I’ve become

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