A blog post by Elena Overfield

This post is about grieving old versions of yourself, even the ones you know you’ve outgrown. To me, I find this concept slightly odd. We all grow through it, and it’s normal. But it’s the idea that we’re grieving someone who technically still exists – they haven’t gone anywhere – and I think that’s very important to remember. We change as we go (and grow) through life, but it’s ok to take a step back and choose to change something in your life – not because it’s inherently bad, but because that part of you simply doesn’t serve you anymore. Just like letting go of a friend or loved one who no longer fits in your life.

I also think how strange it is to look back at past versions of yourself and feel a sense of loss, particularly when you know, deep down, that you won’t want to be that person again. Yeah… that cuts deep.

So, the question is, why would I want to grieve someone I’ve spent so much time trying to outgrow? Why would I miss a version of myself who was less self-aware, who tolerated things I wouldn’t dream of tolerating now, who made mistakes I wish I could undo, or who was struggling in ways I wouldn’t wish upon anybody?

Surely, that’s the whole point of growing up. We learn, we change, we become better people, and we leave the old versions behind. Except… I’m starting to realise it doesn’t quite work like that.

This has all come upon me today as I made the conscious decision to not include photos in my monthly Free Print order of a time before 2026. I will say that I look back and I do feel a sense of hate towards the person I was, particularly last year. Not necessarily self-hatred, but a kind of hate of how I thought I couldn’t grow, couldn’t change, couldn’t get out of that dark, dark hole I was in… because look at me now. That’s all changed. So there’s this resent towards that girl from last year, year before and so on.

There’s another thing that I feel, something that I can’t entirely explain. It’s not necessarily jealousy. It’s not even always nostalgia. It’s this peculiar feeling of recognising the person in the photograph while knowing that, if I met her today, we might not have very much in common. Actually, probably fuck all.

I know her face. I know her friends. I know what she was worrying about when that picture was taken. I know the things she was looking forward to, the people she thought would be around forever, and the things she hadn’t yet experienced.

And I know what’s coming. I think that’s the strangest (and hardest) part. I can look at a photo of myself from a year ago and know exactly which parts of her life are about to fall apart – which friendships will change, which decisions she’ll regret, which things she’ll lose, and which lessons she’s going to have to learn the fucking hard way. You know what hurts the most? There’s absolutely fuck all I can do to warn her.

Equally, I can look at that same photo and see somebody who was happy in ways I’ve forgotten how to be. Somebody who had things I didn’t realise I’d miss. Somebody who believed in certain people, certain plans and certain versions of the future that no longer exist. And maybe that’s what makes this kind of grief so complicated.

I’m not necessarily grieving who I was. I’m grieving everything that existed around the person I used to be. The relationships. The routines. The certainty. The innocence. The version of the future I thought I was heading towards. Maybe, more than anything, I’m grieving the fact that I’ll never get to experience life through her eyes again. Not because my life is worse now, but because it’s different. Very different.

I think I’m finally realising that you can be incredibly grateful for the person you’re becoming while still feeling a little heartbroken for the person you’ve had to leave behind.

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Sometimes I Miss the Things I Didn’t Know Yet

A big side of this “grief” is the innocence behind the versions of myself I used to be. Not just in early childhood, but in every day life up until today.

Of course, I wish I could hug that girl and tell her how shit her life is about to be before these events happened, but we can’t do that, and you know what? That’s the shittest part of this all. So, I grieve that innocence, the unknowing, the uncertainty. If you’ve been here a while, you’ll know how much I have struggled with uncertainty and change, so this feels a bit ironic to me.

It’s the other side of this too. Not just the events that you went through, but the naivety of trusting someone that we know now had a bazillion red flags, and wish we never opened up to them in the first place. Let me tell you, there’s so so so many people that I wish I never met –  and I bloody mean that. We can’t change the past, so of course, we’ve built up our lives around those pivotal meetings with certain people, and changed for (hopefully) the better.

There’s a particular sadness in knowing that you can’t unknow what life has taught you. However, we can’t let those experiences get the better of us for the rest of our lives. We grieve and mourn that person who has gone through that. We even grieve those “red flags” in our lives. Because that girl, that past version of you, trusted them entirely. And on that, it’s the pain of going through how you trusted that person, and how we’ve grown around that.

This does have to do with early childhood innocence too. The way we’d run around without a care in the world. Only scared about the monsters under our beds. Not knowing how cruel the world can be. Before everything changes throughout our lives, and the ruthless lessons we learn (we have to learn) along the way. God, I grieve that version of myself everyday.

It’s not that I want her life back. I just sometimes wish that I could borrow the way she saw the world. In all fairness, though, what’s stopping us?

The People Who Only Knew The Old Me

Honestly, I think this is the most emotional side of all of this. The idea that previous people in our lives only knew that part of us, the part that we so desperately wanted to outgrow. They’ll never see the newer versions of us, whether that is in some cases, for better or for worse.

Another way to look at this too is that some people knew you when you were happier, in a better state of mind, before what ever hardship fell upon you, and others knew you when you were struggling and even behaving in ways you regret. I can relate to all of these situations. For one, it’s a good thing that certain people won’t get to know who I am today, whether they treated me badly or no longer have a place in my life. They don’t deserve to know the newer versions of me, the one that’s less needy, less insecure, less scared and vulnerable. But I know there’s certain people who I would want to see the person I’ve grown into, and yes, I’m grieving that.

Then the third one, that certain people experienced versions of myself who weren’t “good” or brave, or fearless, or strong, or even good-willed at times. They saw the worst parts of me – parts that aren’t my fault, and parts that very much are. Things that I’ve done and said to people, that have shaped how they think of me. There’s a tremendous amount of grief in that, the level that keeps me most nights if I’m being completely transparent with you.

I know I can’t change the past (but believe me if that was a super power I could have, I’d take it in a heartbeat), but some of these things do shake me, sometimes when I’m not expecting it, because these experiences have also shaped my own perception of myself, so I grieve that alongside this too.

I think it is ok to feel this way. Mourning people who haven’t been in our life in a long time, and missing them because they don’t get to see this new version of you. It may sound a tad… self-centered or egotistical… to want them to know you now. In reality though this is equally normal as to not missing them. In my opinion anyway. It’s complicated, it’s messy but I guess that’s life.

I’ve spent so much of my life wanting people to understand me. Wanting them to know my intentions. Wanting them to see the good in me, even when I’ve behaved in ways I’m not proud of.

The reality is that some people only knew me during a chapter when I wasn’t particularly good at being the person I wanted to be… and that’s the version they’ll remember.

They might never know how much I’ve reflected on certain things. How much I’ve regretted. How much I’ve changed. How many conversations I’ve had with myself about decisions I wish I could undo. They might never see the person I’ve become, and I don’t get to demand that they do.

That’s difficult to write, because I think there’s still a part of me that wants to run around correcting everybody’s perception of me. No, but you don’t understand. I’ve changed. I’m not like that anymore. You don’t know the whole story. That last one hits me.

Except perhaps I have to accept that their memories are allowed to exist without my constant involvement. Somebody can remember me as a person who hurt them, even if I now understand why what I did was wrong. Somebody can remember me as somebody they loved, even if we no longer speak. Somebody can remember me as the girl who was struggling, even if I’m no longer in that exact place.

On this, one last thing to leave you with is this. There are people walking around on this planet with memories of a version of me that I no logner know how to be. It sounds deep, but it’s the truth. Again, for better or for worse. Times when I was happy, young and free. Times when I was entirely broken, scared, and experienced some of the worst moments of my life whilst they were with me. All in all, those people aren’t in my life for a reason. Some I wish I could get back in my life, but most can stay not knowing me, because I can’t change it, and that’s enough said.

I Don’t Want to Be Her Again. But I Wish I Could Give Her a Hug.

There are versions of myself that I genuinely struggle to look back at, but it’s not because I hate them. Although, if I’m being completely truthful, there have been moments when I probably did. I think it’s because I know what they were going through, and I know what they were about to go through.

I often think about little Ellie. The shy one. The one who hated summer camps, who watched her siblings make friends effortlessly while she desperately wished she could disappear. The one who moved schools and felt like she didn’t quite belong. The one who started comparing herself to other people before she was even old enough to understand what that comparison might eventually do to her.

I wish I could tell her that being quiet wasn’t something she needed to fix. That not being immediately good at something wasn’t embarrassing. That she didn’t have to be exactly like her sister to be worth knowing. That being different didn’t automatically mean being less.

Then, I think about the older versions. The girl who struggled with an eating disorder. The girl who asked for help and was completely devastated when the support she hoped for didn’t arrive. The girl who kept pushing herself when she was exhausted. The girl who believed that being capable meant never admitting she couldn’t cope. I wish I could give her a hug too. Not because I think a hug would have magically fixed anything, but because I think she spent so much time fighting herself that she probably needed somebody to be gentle with her.

Then, there are the versions of myself that are harder to feel compassionate towards. The girl who made mistakes. The girl who hurt people. The girl who behaved in ways she now regrets. The girl who made decisions that had consequences she couldn’t simply undo. That version is more difficult, because compassion can feel suspiciously like making excuses. And I am done making excuses.

I don’t want to rewrite my past so that everything I did was understandable and therefore somehow acceptable. Some things weren’t. The difference is I’m beginning to realise that I can acknowledge that without turning the person I was into somebody undeserving of kindness.

I can say, ” you shouldn’t have done that,” and also, “I understand that you’re human.” I can wish she’d made different choices without believing she deserves to spend the rest of her life being punished for them. I think that’s an important distinction.

Sometimes when we talk about healing our younger selves, we only seem interested in comforting the innocent versions. The little girl who was left out. The teenager who was insecure. The young woman who was hurt.

What about the versions who weren’t innocent? What about the versions who were selfish, confused, angry, frightened, or simply made terrible decisions? Do they get compassion too? I think they have to. Not automatic forgiveness from the people they hurt. Not freedom from consequences. Rather, the opportunity to become somebody different. Why? If I can only love the versions of myself who never did anything wrong, I’m setting myself an impossible standard.

Maybe that the whole point of growing up is learning to hold two truths at once. I wouldn’t make all the same decisions again… but I don’t have to hate the girl who made them.

ut I don’t have to hate the girl who made them.

There are so many versions of myself I’d love to sit down with. I’d tell some of them to stop worrying. I’d tell some of them to leave. I’d tell some of them to stay. I’d tell some of them to ask for help again. I’d tell some of them that they’re about to make a decision they’ll regret. Mostly, I think I’d just want them to know that life doesn’t end at the point where they think it does. That the heartbreak won’t last in exactly the same way forever. That the friendship ending won’t mean they’re unlovable. That the mistake won’t become the only thing they’re remembered for. That the body they’re fighting so hard against deserves care rather than punishment. And that one day, they’ll look back at photographs of themselves with a strange mixture of sadness, affection and disbelief, because somehow, despite everything, they made it here.

The Strange Guilt of Becoming Someone Happier

There’s another part of grieving old versions of yourself that I find particularly difficult to explain. Sometimes moving forward feels like betrayal. I know that sounds dramatic, but there have been things in my life that once felt so enormous I genuinely couldn’t imagine a future where they didn’t consume me. People I thought I’d never stop missing. Situations I replayed constantly. Mistakes I thought would define me forever. Periods of my life where simply getting through the day felt like an achievement.

Then, almost without noticing, something changes. You wake up and realise you haven’t thought about that person for a few days. You hear a song that once would have absolutely destroyed you, and it doesn’t. You visit somewhere full of memories and realise you can make new ones there. You tell a story about something painful and discover that you’re no longer fighting back tears.

There’s this bizarre moment where you think that that thing didn’t hurt quite like it used to. You’d expect that to feel entirely wonderful, and sometimes it does, but occasionally there’s sadness mixed in.

The fact that something no longer hurts in the same way means you’ve moved further away from the person you were when it did, and I think there’s something almost cruel about how quietly that happens.

One day, somebody is the centre of your entire world. Then, months later, you realise they’ve become somebody you occasionally think about. Not because they weren’t important. Not because the love wasn’t real. Not because the pain was exaggerated. But because life continued. And so did you.

I think there’s a part of me that has sometimes confused holding onto pain with honouring what happened. As though moving on means the experience wasn’t significant enough. As though feeling better somehow invalidates how terrible things once felt. As though letting go of guilt means I don’t care about the people I hurt.

I’m now learning that pain doesn’t have to remain permanent to have been real. I don’t need to keep reopening old wounds to prove they existed. I don’t need to remain devastated by something to demonstrate that it mattered.

And I don’t need to stay the person I was during the worst periods of my life to honour what she went through. For me, this is especially complicated when it comes to recovery.

Sometimes the things you’re trying to leave behind have become so familiar that imagining life without them feels almost frightening. You can desperately want to get better and still grieve the routines, the certainty, or the identity that existed alongside being unwell. That doesn’t mean those things were good for you. It doesn’t mean you should go back. It means change can involve loss even when the change is necessary.

I think this the same applies to relationships. You can know that a relationship ending was right and still miss it. You can know somebody wasn’t good for you and still feel sad when you realise you no longer know them. You can be happier now and still occasionally wish you could revisit a particular moment from before. Happiness isn’t a competition between different versions of your life.

I don’t need to prove that the person I am today is happier than the person I was last year. Maybe some things are better. Maybe some things are harder. Maybe I’ve gained things and lost things. Maybe I’ve grown enormously in certain areas while still making the exact same fucking mistakes in others. Maybe all of that’s okay.

I did think the guilt comes from believing that moving forward means abandoning the person who suffered, but perhaps it’s the opposite.

Perhaps the best thing I can do for the versions of myself who struggled is to allow the person I am now to experience things they couldn’t. To laugh without feeling guilty. To enjoy relationships without constantly anticipating their ending. To rest without believing I need to earn it. To be happy without immediately questioning whether I deserve it.

Maybe I don’t owe my past self a lifetime of sadness. Maybe I owe her the opportunity to discover what comes afterwards.

Maybe I Don’t Have to Leave Every Version of Myself Behind

I think this is where I’ve finally started to understand the whole concept of grieving old versions of yourself, because for a long time, I’ve treated personal growth as though it requires a complete reinvention. A new chapter. A new mindset. A new version. Leave the old one behind. Become better. Move on.

I don’t think now that that’s really how identity works. Earlier this year, I rebranded my blog from Pepetoe to Elena Overfield, and more recently, in what I jokingly called The Rebrand 2.0, I went back to brunette. Helloooo, brunette Ellie. It sounds so superficial when I put it like that. A new website name and a different hair colour. Hardly groundbreaking developments in the grand scheme of human existence. But both changes have meant something much deeper to me.

Pepetoe was a name I created when I was younger. It became this little corner of the internet where I shared parts of myself, where I wrote about things I was experiencing, where I slowly learnt how to put feelings into words. And I loved it. I still do. It’s literally tattooed on me. Eventually I realised that I didn’t want to write behind another name anymore.

I wanted to put my own name on the things I was sharing. Even the uncomfortable things. Especially the uncomfortable things.

I wanted to stop separating the person writing the stories from the person living them. So, Pepetoe became Elena Overfield.

And then came the brunette hair. A return to something closer to my natural colour, and strangely, rather than feeling like I’d transformed into somebody new, I felt like I’d come home. There’s something quite poetic about that.

Spending years changing, growing, experimenting, becoming different versions of yourself, only to discover that sometimes the most meaningful change is returning to something that was there all along.

I don’t think I’m returning to the girl I used to be. I couldn’t. Too much has happened. I’m not the shy girl at a summer camp anymore, even though I can still feel her insecurity occasionally. I’m not the girl who first started Pepetoe, even though I still have her love of writing. I’m not the same hockey player I was before my injury, even though I still love the sport. I’m not the person I was in previous relationships, even though I carry things those relationships taught me. I’m not the girl who made certain mistakes, even though I still have to take responsibility for them. And I’m not the person I was during the darkest periods of my eating disorder, even though recovery isn’t something I can simply declare finished and forget about.

All of those versions still exist somewhere within me. Not as people I need to become again, but as people who helped make me who I am.

Maybe that’s what I’ve misunderstood about growing up. I don’t have to abandon every previous version of myself in order to become somebody new. I can carry the good things. The humour, ambition, the love of sport, the ridiculous enthusiasm, the sensitivity I’ve spent years thinking was a weakness, the ability to care deeply. The desire to write honestly, even when the honesty makes me uncomfortable. I can acknowledge the things I want to leave behind. The desperate need for approval. The belief that rejection determines my worth. The constant self punishment. The need to control every possible outcome. The idea that being strong means never needing help.

I don’t have to abandon every previous version of myself in order to become somebody new.

I don’t have to pretend those things never existed. I just don’t have to let them decide who I become next. Maybe that’s the most comforting thing about all of this. I’m not finished. The version of Elena writing this article isn’t the final version. In a year’s time, I might read these words and cringe. I might disagree with half of them. I might look back at photographs from today and wonder what on earth I was worrying about. I might miss things I currently take for granted. I might have learnt lessons I can’t even imagine needing to learn yet.

And maybe I’ll feel a little sad for this version of myself too, because she’ll have become another person I used to be. I hope, though, that when I look back, I’ll be gentle with her.

I hope I won’t judge her solely by the things she got wrong. I hope I’ll remember that she was trying, that she was learning… that she was doing her best with what she understood at the time, even when her best wasn’t always enough.

I hope, I truly hope, that I’ll recognise that she deserves some credit for getting me wherever I end up next, because maybe growing up isn’t about becoming somebody completely different every year. Maybe it’s about collecting versions of yourself. Learning from them. Forgiving some of them. Missing some of them. Outgrowing some of them. And carrying them all, in some way, into whatever comes next. I don’t want to be the person I was last year, but I don’t want to erase her either. She got me here.

And I think that’s worth remembering.