‘Letters To My Younger Selves – And the Quiet Women Who Made Me Who I Am’

Dear Penny,

It’s 1967.

This is your first sad time, and it’s best you keep crying. You’re learning that friends leave, but also something about them stays with you, I promise you.

Laura is strong. You love that, don’t you? At 12 years old, she seems so grown-up.

She makes you laugh in that hospital when your knees are hurting. She steals an extra sweet from the treat tin to make you feel better. She tells you how clever you are as she plaits your hair, which she says is beautiful. She helps you with your times tables, which you hate, and your spelling, which you love. She Reads aloud The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, encouraging you to do the same – how thrilled you are when you learn it off by heart and Laura says ‘you’ll do more of that one day’, and you believe it.

You know she’ll be with you in the grim times. Like when she dies, and then a year later, when Dad dies too.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1970.

Despite what the doctors say – and do remember that they often say silly things – you’re doing okay as you come up to your 10th birthday. You fought back. But I know you’re sad because they made you give up horse-riding. But it’s good to remember this means you’re able to be with your favourite teacher, Miss C. She sees something in you, and sets off a strength that’ll last a lifetime.

You like her necklace, shaped like a star, which hangs on a gold chain. You like her clothes – there’s something neat yet trendy about her. And when you learn the evil humans can do, it’s good it comes from Miss C. You know about the Second World War, and that there are other wars still going on. Some of them affect Miss C, who is sometimes upset. Dad’s old books show photos of dead naked bodies. You know that was to do with the Nazis, and Miss C tells you about the wicked men who killed her family, including her sister, who used a wheelchair. You’re shocked, but you realise this is growing up. You now use a wheelchair, too, so Miss C takes you to her flat for tea while the other kids ride horses.

You’ll never forget how happy you felt when she said ‘Penny, you could grow up to be a poet’.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1973.

What snuggles you have with Amy in that cold hospital. You don’t realise how precious you are to her. How you try helping her with spelling. Amy tells you, together in the dark, that she knows how babies are made – that a man’s thing goes into a lady’s thing and it feels nice. You laugh ‘til you think you’ll wet the bed. Amy says it makes magic happen; that if you touch each other in a certain place, you’ll discover this magic, too.

The time comes when your heart breaks again. Amy will have a wonderful, if short, life, and, as happens with many of us, will rise above negative expectations. Before she dies, she falls in love and has a child, which was the thing she really wanted.

Amy is lost, but what she gives you is the beginning of what every girl should know and, in those days, what very few disabled girls knew at all.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1974.

Time drags on in hospital. The doctors say they’re healing you, the teachers that they’re educating you. You’re told you’re clever and now there’re new expectations.

You will meet the incredible Marsha, who talks about reggae and teaches you how to dance to it. You’ll share secrets as a duo, while she cornrows your hair and teases at how flat it is. Part of your time together leads to unexpected horror. The miserable porter drags your chair to one side, asks why you’re not chatting with other white girls. You’ve never thought that some humans might be worth more than others but, through seeing Marsha’s pain, the dreadful reality of what grown-ups do is revealed.

I know you don’t understand yet, because to laugh and joke and share with Marsha in this horrible place is the best thing that’s happened to you in ages. This new experience will make you feel older, but your defiance begins – thanks to Marsha and other friends who you’ll see are treated differently.

Most of all, the time with Marsha stays with you as one of shared teenage fun, laughter, dancing, bringing joy, and the learning of something you’ll never forget.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1976.

Times are painful. You’re fighting to understand what you’re about. You’ve started to write. Expectation grows that you will ‘do well’ academically, which many will tell you is a great advantage. While you can’t tell them how you really feel; how difficult things are in other areas of your life, friendships still sustain you.

You’ll meet gentle Bina, who’ll love to tell you stories during boring dinner times.

Nurse Ruth, who wakes you up with a song sung in her patois.

Nurse Norma, the best at bathing you, who makes the traumatic process fun by shampooing your hair into silly shapes, and who shocks you with revelations of animal testing.

In a world of female-only seclusion, you miss your brothers, but there are working-class girls from all over the UK. Some have a dad from Jamaica, others a mum from Ireland. Mandy’s from Manchester, older and wiser. She teaches you more than you could dream of, like how to dress, and coaxes you to ask your Mum to get you a trendy haircut.

As you nervously approach 16, Mandy gives you feminist books, explains them while announcing that she’s going to be an artist. Then, when you’re chatting in your quiet dorm, she tells you what masturbation means. What your clitoris is, and how a disabled girl can circumvent difficulties in exploring this new excitement (see ‘Girls Wank Too’ in Desires Reborn for fictionalised version). Thanks to Mandy, everything changes.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1977.

You see the Sex Pistols on telly. Most people hate them, but you feel something stir.

A surprising  friendship is one you develop with your English teacher, the next woman to say ‘Penny, you could be a writer’. Mrs G is horrified by the Sex Pistols but she’s warm, encouraging, and shows patience as you trudge through adolescence. You freeze in depression, believe you are nothing and that your friends think the same. Mrs G sets alight the spark of believing you are something – and, while it’s hard for you to see it, she does, I promise, mean this. Your identity is burgeoning as you wrestle with literature, desperate to understand Keats.

Mrs G will stay in your life through letters. Keep that trust in her, because she’s set you on a far from ordinary path, helping you resist negative clichés. She takes you across class boundaries that broaden your horizons while fighting the prejudice you’ll always face. 

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Dear Penny,

It’s 1979.

Mrs G is not the only non-disabled woman who befriends you. Many allies reach out during harder times. I know you cannot see their light, no matter how many come close, but as you struggle inside, these bleak landscapes of your failing purpose and identity, you meet K – the sister beyond blood. It’s a friendship that starts in hospital and only ends with the eternal, cruel equaliser of death, far too young.

The adventures you have with K set you on a life that is exceptional, at times unbelievable. One that none on the outside would expect. K will validate you as a writer. You will share a journey as you look for sexual adventure, taking it in turns to read Anaïs Nin’s journals, starting your own (that you’ll do for life), writing poems as only the broken-hearted young can do. K sees you as the shy punk, and reaches for your hand so she can join the movement.

This is the true beginning of a life most singular and unimagined. K is the progenitor and, while her death at 32 breaks you for a while, she’s the one who, more than any other woman, leaves the most powerful and lasting legacy into your future – disability activist, poet, and writer.

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Dear Penny,

It’s 2025.

Remember these women, and so many more. These brilliant and diverse voices that are now part of you. Each time you remember, you celebrate what you gave each other. I know their pride in you remains as you continue your journey.

Love Penny

Penny Pepper is an award-winning author, poet, and disabled activist