'I found a letter I wrote to my future self at 12. She had no idea I’d grow up to strip.'

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"I am 12 years old, and everything is okay. I've started high school. It's okay."

Reading that now, I can feel how hard I was trying to convince myself everything was "okay". Twice in the first line. I wanted it to be true, but it wasn't.

What followed was a jumble of dreams: ballerina, doctor, veterinarian. Rich, nice house, marry the 'nicest man on earth'.

I did not say anything about taking my clothes off for a living.

If that 12-year-old girl could see me now, she'd probably be shocked. And secretly impressed. She wanted to dance. She wanted to help people.

Through burlesque, I've been able to do both.

At 12, my life revolved around movement and making things. I danced five nights a week, and when I wasn't at the studio, I was crafting.

Evana at 12 years old. Image: Supplied.

For my birthday I was given my first sewing machine. Most weekends, I sat at my little craft station, sewing scraps of fabric into outfits, drawing, and scrapbooking. I'd strut through the living room like it was Paris Fashion Week, forcing my family to watch. My mum was my photographer, roped into documenting every new outfit.

And then there was my bedroom karaoke machine. I was always first home from school, which meant an hour of absolute freedom. I'd blast The Pussycat Dolls, strip fully nude, and dance in front of the mirror like I was already on stage. My first taste of freedom. Not about being sexy. About taking up space without shame. Fun fact: The Pussycat Dolls started as a burlesque troupe. Foreshadowing much?

I didn't know the word burlesque yet. But the signs were all there.

In that same letter, I also wrote: "I have heaps of friends, and they are really nice to me."

I don't know if I was trying to trick my future self or reassure her. Maybe both. I wanted to believe it, but it wasn't true. My friendships were limited and surface-level. I always felt like the odd one out, the weird kid who couldn't click into place.

Part of it was queerness, though I didn't have the words for it. I already knew I liked girls, and like so many queer kids, I just wanted to escape that and feel "normal." I wanted to blend. But the harder I tried, the more obvious it felt that I couldn't.

Around the same time I wrote that letter, a boy from school messaged me and called me "a slut, a b*tch, a whore, and more." I cried for an entire day. I didn't even know what half those words meant back then — I just knew they hurt. They made me feel small, ashamed of something I hadn't even done.

And here's the irony: people still call me those same words now. Only this time, they're not weapons that can shrink me. They bounce off. Because now, when they're said, it's not about me being the "weird" kid who couldn't fit in. It's about me daring to live on my own terms — taking control of my body, my sexuality, and my art. And that's something I refuse to be ashamed of.

It wasn't until years later, when I came into my queer identity, was diagnosed with ADHD, and found my place in the burlesque community, that the words in that diary finally rang true. Now I do have "heaps of friends who are really nice to me." They're fellow performers who've stood beside me backstage, students I've taught who've found their own confidence, audiences who cheer me on, and the hundreds of thousands of strangers online who celebrate me not in spite of my weirdness, but because of it.

Watch: WELL: ADHD is finally getting the attention it deserves.

Another line in that letter reads: "Don't forget to look after Mum and Dad."

That one hits differently now.

My mum passed away from cancer before she ever got to see me succeed in the arts, and my dad doesn't know how to cope with his grief. He struggles to relate, to approve.

Losing my mum was an immense grief, one I still carry. She was tough, not always affectionate, but she taught me to sew, drove me to dance lessons, and took photos. She planted the seed, even if she never saw it bloom.

I didn't see it at the time, but her tough love was its own kind of affection. Every stitch, every car ride, every photo was her way of saying: go on, make something bigger of this than I ever could.

It was only after I lost her that I threw myself fully into burlesque. My rise has been fast — maybe too fast for some people's liking. Too ambitious. Too much. Slow down. I've heard it all.

But when you're confronted with how short life can be, you stop playing small. My mum never got the chance to fulfil her dreams. I won't waste mine.

Evana in one of her shows. Image: Supplied.

She never saw the rhinestones, the tassels, the sold-out shows. But I carry her with me in all of it. Everyone tells me she'd be proud, and I believe them. But knowing her sense of humour, she'd probably also roll her eyes, laugh, and call me a tart.

At the very end of my letter, a 12-year-old me wrote: "I hope the future is fun. Make sure you keep imagining. Always keep your mind wide open."

The future is fun. Because I built it. Because I refused to play small. That's what my 12-year-old self wouldn't believe: fun doesn't arrive ready-made. You fight for it, shape it, protect it. But her advice worked because I imagined something different. Kept my mind wide open. And that's how I got here.

Evana De Lune is an award-winning Australian burlesque artist and producer, headlining Burlesque with Evana De Lune at the Sydney Fringe Festival from 16–21 September. Follow her at @evanadelune.

Feature image: Supplied.