Dear Younger Me

a letter to my younger self on my 41st birthday 💛

Dear 23-Year-Old Me,

Hi. Today is my (our) 41st birthday. I know, I know—that sounds so old. But just last month, I got carded (getting carded is exciting now!) while buying boxed wine at Sam’s Club. The cashier did a double-take when he saw my birthdate, looked back at me, made a face, and handed back my ID. I want to think it’s because he couldn’t believe I was nearly 41. But maybe he just liked my hat. Anyway, yes, we are 41 years old today.

There are so many things I want to tell you, things and people I wish I could warn you about. I want you to skip the heartaches and tears ahead, the breakups with boyfriends and friends.

But when I think about untangling the last 20 years—the good from the bad—I know it would change everything. The beauty of hindsight is that I know you have to go through some difficult seasons to get where I am now.

You might be wondering, where did we end up?

Ooh. I so badly want to tell you this, to give you some clues. But giving you too many hints might sway your decisions—and like a spider web, one break in the web would change everything.

Part of me knows you wouldn’t listen anyway.

I can see you sitting in your apartment in Laramie, just a few months after your internship in DC. You’re officially a college graduate. I know you’re picturing a future we always dreamed of—a life in the city. This dream feels more tangible now that you spent a semester living in DC and visited NYC for the first time while living there. I also know you just passed up the opportunity to apply for a full-time job with the senator you interned for and the chance to return to DC. I know you’re grappling with the fact that you didn’t apply. You’ll wonder for months if that was the right decision.

I remember being you—well, me—at 23. I would have given anything to know who (and if!) I would marry, my career, and where I would live. In some ways, looking ahead at the future felt terrifying, but it was exciting, too. I know this is what you’re feeling now. I can feel that pit in your stomach—the unknowns, wondering if you’re making the “right” choices.

But now, with the gift of hindsight, I can tell you that beauty is in not knowing. If I told you everything that would happen, you might make different decisions to avoid hard seasons and heartbreaks. You might think you could skip ahead, but you would miss out on some great experiences and friendships, too.

I know this is easy for me to say. I can see you rolling your eyes at me. (Oh, and any chance you get, stare into those magnified mirrors in hotel bathrooms. Girl, things look different now.)

Without giving everything away, I want to tell you there isn’t a one-size-fits-all for a happy life. There isn’t one way to be successful.

This letter is harder to write than I expected, not because there’s nothing to tell you, but because there’s so much to tell, and so much I cannot tell you. And I’m still learning things about myself all the time.

I wish I could tell you that you’ll grow a thicker skin—your feelings won’t be hurt when you feel left out or overlooked. And while it’s a bit easier to let things roll off my back now, it still stings. But now, instead of assuming something is wrong with me, I’m learning that some people are not my people. Some opportunities aren’t meant for me (no matter how badly I want them to be). I’m still learning at 41 that some friendships are for a season, and that’s okay.

One thing I’m going to take from you is that you aren’t afraid of taking risks (some are probably ill-advised, but that’s a topic for another day). You see the future filled with endless possibilities. Now, at 41, it’s easy for me to think that my big dreams and chances are behind me. But I know that’s not true. I’m going to take some of your bravery at 23 into year 41.

I won’t ramble on; you’re probably wondering why I bothered to send you this note if I’m not going to give you any real answers. But I wanted to check in and tell you it all works out. And, selfishly, I wanted to remember being 23, even for a little while.

The last, and maybe only, piece of real advice I’ll give you is to trust your gut.

I know you have fun plans tonight, so I’ll end this letter here. (I’m tired just thinking about going out so late.) I’ll be tucked into bed by 8 after eating cake at home.

You have so many wonderful and exciting things ahead of you.

The best really is to come.

Stace