We often talk about growth like it means becoming someone completely different.

A lot of us look back at older versions of ourselves and cringe. We think about the relationships we stayed in, the things we tolerated, the choices we made, and wonder, What was I thinking? Sometimes we wear that embarrassment like proof that we've changed. We assume that if we're uncomfortable with who we used to be, it must mean we've grown.

But I've been wondering if that's really what growth is.

It's easy to judge who we used to be when we're looking back with information we didn't have at the time. What feels obvious now often wasn't obvious then. We know how the story ended. We know what lessons came afterward. We know what we eventually learned.

The version of us living through it didn't.

They were making decisions from the middle of the story, not the end. They were navigating uncertainty in real time. They didn't know which relationships would hurt them, which risks would pay off, or which moments would become turning points. They were responding to what was in front of them with the understanding they had at the time.

Maybe that's why I think a more helpful question isn't, "Why did I do that?" but, "What was I going through when I did that?"

The answers tend to be very different.

When I ask myself why I did something, I usually end up building a case against myself. I focus on what I missed, what I should have known, or what I would do differently now. But when I ask what was happening for me at the time, I remember things I'd forgotten. I remember the uncertainty. The context. The reasons something made sense to me then, even if it doesn't now.

Most of us were doing the best we could with the awareness, resources, and emotional capacity we had at the time. That doesn't mean every choice was healthy or that we shouldn't take responsibility for our actions. There are things I wish I had handled differently. There are seasons of my life I wouldn't want to repeat.

But there is a difference between reflecting on our mistakes and using them as evidence against ourselves.

For a long time, I thought feeling embarrassed by my past was a sign that I had learned something. I'm not so sure anymore.

I think we sometimes mistake self-criticism for self-awareness. We assume that if we're hard enough on ourselves, it means we've grown. But when I look back on the moments that changed me most, they rarely came from judging myself. They came from understanding myself.

Not excusing.

Not avoiding accountability.

Understanding.

Understanding why I stayed when I should have left.

Understanding why I accepted things I deserved better than.

Understanding what I was afraid of losing, what I was hoping for, and what I needed at the time.

That understanding doesn't erase responsibility. If anything, it makes responsibility easier to hold because it isn't tangled up with shame.

I've never found shame to be particularly transformative. It tends to narrow our perspective until all we can see is the mistake. Compassion widens the lens. It allows us to see the full picture, including the circumstances, fears, and limitations that existed alongside the choice itself.

You can acknowledge that you stayed too long.

You can admit that you ignored red flags, settled for less than you deserved, or handled things in ways you wouldn't today.

And you can still understand why.

I come back to that often because I think a lot of us struggle to separate what we did from who we are. We look at mistakes and turn them into character assessments. We forget that people are always more complicated than the hardest chapter of their lives.

Sometimes I think we treat our past selves like strangers. We speak about them with a level of harshness we would never direct toward someone we love.

Yet when I look back, I can see pieces of those older versions of myself everywhere. Not just in the parts I'd rather leave behind, but in the parts I value now too.

The version of me that trusted too easily taught me discernment.

The version of me that struggled with boundaries taught me why they matter.

The version of me that doubted myself taught me what confidence actually looks like.

I don't mean that every painful experience happened for a reason. I don't think every hardship needs to become a lesson. Some experiences are simply painful.

But I do think something gets lost when we spend years trying to distance ourselves from who we used to be.

Sometimes we become so focused on not being that person anymore that we stop recognizing what they survived. We stop appreciating the strength it took to keep going when they were confused, heartbroken, uncertain, or afraid. We remember their mistakes and forget their resilience.

The truth is that the person you are today didn't arrive fully formed. Every version of you had a hand in getting you here.

The confident version.

The uncertain version.

The hopeful version.

The version that got it wrong.

The version that was doing their best and still got hurt.

They're all part of the same story.

When I think about healing, I don't think it's always about becoming someone new.

Sometimes it's about becoming more understanding toward the person you've already been.

It's about looking back and seeing a human being instead of a list of mistakes.

Someone who was trying to make sense of things with the tools they had.

Someone who didn't know what you know now.

Someone who, like all of us, was trying to find their way.

If there's a version of yourself that still makes you cringe, I wonder what would happen if you got curious about them instead.

Not to excuse anything.

Not to rewrite history.

Just to understand.

What were they carrying?

What were they afraid of?

What did they need?

What were they trying to protect?

Often the parts of ourselves we struggle to accept are the parts that needed the most compassion all along.

Maybe growth isn't measured by how far away we get from who we used to be.

Maybe it's measured by our ability to look back and hold that version of ourselves with a little more understanding.

To see them clearly.

To see them honestly.

And to recognize that they were worthy of compassion then, too.