a letter to my younger self

dear me...

[it seems silly to be writing a letter to myself, but here we go]

Sixteen years ago, on a sunny—but crisp—fall day, you were born. Small, pink, with sticks of dark hair and creases already marked on your face. And you were loved. And you grew up. You rolled over, crawled, took a first tottering step, and were off. Trying to run through the rest of life without stopping to look back. So I’m here now, looking back for you. 

Life hasn’t been all you thought it would be. You tend to romanticize things, to constantly peer ahead instead of waiting patiently. 

You’re excited. Yes, I know. 

You’re still rushing too fast forward. I know that too.

Life goes so fast. 

You’ll turn sixteen. What a long time to be alive. Don’t take any of those years for granted. You will, of course, but I’ll just say it for posterity’s sake. 

You’ll fall in love. Whether or not anything comes of that, I can’t rightly say. I haven’t been there yet. But you’ll fall in love and it will feel like flying without wings, and sometimes as though you’ve turned into Icarus and are falling without wings. 

You’ll watch someone you love turn into a statue of himself, a silent, hurting stone. And you will ache. And you will try to fix him all by yourself, and of course you will fail. But you tried, at least, so that counts for something, doesn’t it? 

You will finally pick up the phone and answer it for the first time—conquered that fear. 

You won’t get over your fear of sharks, but there’s always time for that. 

You’ll watch your friends grow up and leave you, and discover new ones in the meantime. 

You’ll set deadlines and fail to meet them, you’ll make promises and fail to keep them, you’ll mess up over and over again but that’s okay. It’s okay. You’re still learning, sixteen is not a very grand age.

You’ll try to project confidence onto your trembling expression, and sometimes it will fool people but never yourself.

You’ll find it’s easy to lead yourself on, and easier to lead others on, without even meaning to. You’ll wish to take words back, but you can’t. Even more often, you’ll wish you had spoken up, but you couldn’t.

You’ll start a blog—I know you always wanted to do that. You’ll write poetry and think about publishing a book. 

You’ll want to start a band and act in a movie and own a horse and dye your hair and will have all sorts of dreams that haven’t yet been realized. Maybe one day though.

Days will be sunny and rainy in turn, and you won't be able to do a thing about it. But life goes on, and you will get stronger, and all these experiences will add up to something one day.

You’re smart. And you’ll think you’re smarter than you are, but you’re not. 

You worry too much. You still pick your nails. You hold grudges and trust too easily and don’t set enough time for what’s really important. But you’re learning, and that’s what matters.

I want you to know that I love you.

It’s taken sixteen years and too many smudged mirrors and a battle worthy of Tolkien to say that. 

I want you to know that God loves you.

Because you will forget over and over again, and you will only offer anger and indifference in return, but still, He loves you. You’re still learning that, to be honest.

Now I should stop spoiling these years for you, like people often do with the endings of good books. I’ll let you figure it out for yourself—you learn best by making mistakes. 

But your story isn’t over yet, this narrative isn’t all that you wanted it to be, but it’s enough. It’s exciting. It’s a life well lived, I think. 

With love,

-a work in progress

09 | 26 | 17

1:10 pm