Letters to My Younger Self (as a Student, Educator, and Founder)

By Sophia Anne-Marie Miller

Sophia, aged 6, at a birthday party.

If I could sit across from my younger self—leg bouncing under the table, impulsively shouting out the answer (or staring out the window), wondering why everyone else seems to be able to comply (not that I knew this word when I was 8)—I think I’d start with this:

You’re not wrong for how you learn. You just see the world in a way others haven’t caught up to yet.

To My Younger Self, the Student:

They’ll tell you to sit still.To follow the rules.To pay attention.

And god forbid you ask “why.”  You’ll try, probably harder than most, but your attention has wings. It drifts toward sunlight on the wall, or the way someone’s voice cracks when they read aloud. You’re listening - just not to what they expect.

“To look but not see” 

You’ll wonder why other kids seem fine with the box you’re suffocating in. You’ll learn to hide the questions. You’ll think you’re the problem.

You’re not. Your brain is wired to notice beauty, to feel deeply, to ponder the big questions. One day, you’ll call this sensitivity a strength. One day, you’ll build an entire philosophy around it.

Keep following the wonder. It’s wiser than you know.

To My Younger Self, the Educator:

At first, you’ll think you need to be more professional. You’ll buy clipboards and colour-code things. You’ll keep a calm voice even when your chest is roaring. You’ll try to be the kind of teacher you thought good teachers were.

But one day, a child will break down in front of you; and you won’t reach for a behaviour chart. You’ll sit beside them on the floor. You’ll ask, “What do you need right now?” And everything will shift.

You’ll learn that presence matters more than polish. That education is not about managing behaviour: it’s about meeting needs. That regulation doesn’t come from control, but from connection.

You’ll stop trying to be impressive. You’ll start becoming Real.

To My Younger Self, the Founder:

You never set out to start a company. You just wanted to make things better. For one child. One family. One overwhelmed teacher.

But the more you built, the more you saw: There was a bigger need. A deeper ache in the system. A longing for education that sees the whole human, not just the test score.

So you’ll gather the tools. The spreadsheets, yes…but also the breathwork. The policies…and the poems. You’ll build a business not out of ambition, but out of devotion.

And you’ll discover that real leadership doesn’t come from certainty, but from integrity. You’ll still doubt yourself sometimes. You’ll still crave permission.

But you’ll keep going. Because this work is not about being perfect. It’s about being true.

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Miller & Co was never meant to be a brand. It was meant to be a beacon. For all the children who felt “too much” or “not enough.” For all the educators who secretly wondered if they were allowed to care this much. For all the founders building slow, kind, human-centred things.

This is for you.

And for the little girl in the classroom, staring out the window, dreaming up a world no one else can see;

I see it now. And I believe in it. And in you.

— Sophia