Letter to my 25-Year-Old Self

A letter to my 25-year-old self, who’s hopefully finally gotten her shit together and knows herself and all that jazz.

Hey,

I’m 19 as I write this, and I’ve gotta say I’m a little underwhelmed by it all.  When I was younger, I assumed that the minute I turned 18, I would become a full-grown adult, filled with poise and know-how and some intangible essence of…woman.  On that fateful birthday, however, I was left bereft of any such essence.  Instead, I was left with a strong sense of disillusionment and the lingering scent of teenage B.O.

At 19, I’m not much better.  B.O. and all.

I’m feeling pretty lost right now.  We have that awful gift of stunted self-awareness, where we know enough to describe how we’re feeling but not enough to know why.  I’m starting to have regrets about not going the pre-med track.  Maybe it was out of pride or just plain pig-headedness that I told Dad I would never be a doctor.  Because at this point, it just looks so much easier to follow the well-worn path rather than grabbing around fruitlessly in the dark.

I wrote this letter to you with the hope that things are much better in my mid-twenties.  You’re three years out of college, and I’d like to think that you’ve got a stable job with your head on straight, you’re accomplishing the things you said you would, and you have no questions about your capability.  If at any point in that previous sentence, you find yourself saying no or you feel yourself start to cry because life hasn’t operated linearly like you wanted it to, I’d like to apologize.  I’m sorry for the mistakes that I will make in the next few years of our life.

I’d like to be there so you can choke back sobs into my shoulder, and I can rub your back, quietly shushing you.  And after your allotted time of two hours of crying, I’ll sit you back up, give you a hard stare, and say in all seriousness, “You is smart.  You is kind.  You is important.”  I might pause then because I know how stupid it sounds coming from the 19-year-old plagued with self-doubt and at times self-pity.  And the phrases themselves are just kind of stupid.  Grammatical structure, where.  But if I know you at all, you just need someone to listen, say a few words, and send you on your way.

If you’re very happy and you’re farting rose petals and daisies on a daily basis, then I’m glad.  I am so very glad for you, and I hope you’ve taken the time to share the happiness.  Save some money to send mom and dad on a  trip to Paris, call your college friends every now and then, and don’t stop being silly.  I think it’s my favorite trait we’ve inherited from dad.  If you’re happy, then I think it’s because for the first time in awhile, you’re looking forward to the future.  And that is so precious, I hope you’ll be able to hold onto that feeling for the rest of your life.

Because I’m not very original, I’ll leave you with some words from Benjamin Button, a man with an extraordinary condition who contentedly lived a very ordinary life: “For what it’s worth, it’s never too late…to be whoever you want to be.  There’s no time limit.  Start whenever you want.  You can change or stay the same.  There are no rules to this thing.  We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it.  I hope you see things that startle you.  I hope you feel things you never felt before.  I hope you meet people with a different point of view.  I hope you live a life you’re proud of.  And if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”  

I love you,

Diana