Letters I'll Never Send: To Myself in 12 Years

Dear Self,

When I think about what I want to say to you all I can think of is asking for forgiveness.  I hope you're not mad at me for not earning very much money.  I'm not putting enough away, and the last two years have been a blow to my savings.  I wonder if you're grumbling about my decisions.  I wonder what you think of me.   I feel like striking a deal with you: if you won't be mad at me for not making lots of money, I won't be mad at you if you haven't married anyone or had any kids. 

But of course you can blame me for those things, so it's not a fair swap, is it?

I don't know whether you'll be a harsh judge of me or a forgiving one.  I've eased up a lot since I was 20, but I still worry sometimes that I'm doing it wrong, whatever "it" is.  I don't notice it most of the time but when I sit down and think of you, sitting there a dozen years in the future, I can feel how desperately I want to do right by you.  I don't want you to be mad at me, or think I'm a big chump. 

Let's start with this: I hope you're there, alive and able to read this, in 12 years.  I hope you're healthy.  (I just went to the gastroenterologist and he says he doesn't need to see me anymore unless the symptoms come back, so that's good news.  In case you have come to take your basic bodily functions for granted, let me remind you that once upon a time things were a bit bumpy.)   I hope you're running and skiing and doing stuff that I don't know how to do now.   I hope you're strong and outdoorsy and brave. 

I hope you're still in touch with the people I love today.  I hope you're a good favorite auntie to the kids of my dear friends, who are only just now being born and conceived.  I bet you are.  I'm not, but I bet you are.  I think that's pretty cool if you are.   Where did you learn it?  Can you offer me any hints?  I could use your advice about this time of life, when my friends are all disappearing down the rabbit hole of parenthood.  I haven't any idea how to do it.  I hope you're graceful and generous, and that you take care of people, listen to them and make them laugh. 

I hope you're writing, and telling stories.  I hope you are reaching people with your words.  I hope you haven't given up. 

Do you remember Belle, my dog?  I hope you haven't forgotten her.  You probably have another dog.  Do you sing songs to her, and play bongo drums on her belly?  Do you go on long rambly walks together?  If you don't, I think you should.  You used to really like that.  It was good for you. 

I know you'll be sailing, and I hope you'll be competing.  I like to imagine you with some pretty ambitious goals, racing nationally.  I like wondering about what you'll be doing.   

I'm trying.  I'm trying not to screw things up for you.  I decided that you didn't need money or slick business cards as much as you needed time and space and wind and water and freedom.  I hope I wasn't wrong about that.  I decided not to marry that guy and I'm pretty sure I was right about that.  I sometimes think about selling the house, but I think about you and I change my mind.  I'm trying to stay healthy.  I'm trying to write things down so you can remember me, so if it turns out that I've messed things up for you at least you'll understand what I was thinking. 

With love and hope,

Your younger self

PS. I'm flossing for you.  And I'm trying to be vigilant about moisturizing.  I'll work on the calcium and daily multivitamin habit, too. 

Comments

[a]

what a great letter.

[Harry]

Absolutely beautiful. It's interesting how the letter sounds as if it is written by a parent to her child.

[DC_Amy]

Got your link from your stephanieklein comment. Excellent letters, both of them. I too "still worry sometimes that I'm doing it wrong, whatever "it" is." I'm at a point in my life where I have to make a bunch of big decisions that will affect future-me. And I don't want to mess her up either. Thanks for reminding me that I'm not the only one who sometimes wonders if she's competent to decide things for her furture.