Tell Her It’s Okay to Fall Apart by Tamari

Tell Her It’s Okay to Fall Apart by Tamari - July 2025 Scholarship Essay

If I could give one piece of advice to my past self, I wouldn’t offer a roadmap or tell her to try harder. I wouldn’t hand her a list of what to fix or who to become. I’d sit beside her—quietly, gently—and say:
“It’s okay to fall apart. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re real.”

There was a version of me—still young, still learning—who thought strength meant silence. Who believed she had to smile through the pain, nod through the confusion, and carry everything on her own shoulders, no matter how heavy. She thought struggling meant she was weak. She believed falling behind meant she had failed.

If I could reach her—the girl sitting on her bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling in the dark, wondering why life felt so hard—I wouldn’t try to change her. I’d remind her of everything she can’t see yet.

I’d say:

“Your tears are not a weakness. They’re proof that you care deeply, that you feel the world in ways others may never understand. The world will try to harden you, but don’t let it. Stay soft. Stay human. That softness is your superpower.”

I’d tell her that the people who seem so sure of themselves are often just better at pretending. That everyone is figuring it out, even if they’re quiet about it. I’d say that one day, she’ll be proud—not of how perfectly she hid the pain, but of how she learned to rise anyway. With shaky hands. With a tired heart. But with courage that never gave up.

I’d remind her that growth isn’t loud. It doesn’t come with applause or certificates. Sometimes, it looks like getting out of bed when you don’t want to. Sometimes, it’s choosing to try again after being told “no.” Sometimes, it’s letting yourself rest without guilt.

I’d whisper, “You are not falling apart. You are falling into place.”

And most of all, I’d tell her she’s going to be okay. That even though the future feels uncertain, and her path doesn’t look like anyone else’s—it will be hers, and it will be enough. More than enough.

She will bloom—not in spite of the brokenness, but because of it.