From Heather, on her 36th birthday

Today is my birthday. A couple of weeks ago I decided to write a letter to my 18 year-old self and post it here on my birthday because, wow, I’m 36 years old and that’s like ancient to an 18 year-old girl. I read a couple of similar letters on other blogs and they were hilarious. I wanted mine to be hilarious and fun, too.

As I started writing, I realized there wasn’t a whole lot of humor here. I wasn’t warning myself about the loser from Target or the disastrous attempt at bar tending school or getting into an accident with my dad’s car my first semester in college. The letter wasn’t full of advice to help my younger self avoid my mistakes so much as telling her life goes on in spite of them.

So here’s my letter. It’s sentimental and maudlin and made me cry in places as I wrote it. Yeah, I know. I’m such a baby sometimes.

Dear Heather,

I’m writing this letter to you, my 18 year-old self, because I turned 36 years old today and have now lived twice as long as you have. Your memories of the years leading up to you becoming an adult are no doubt sharp and vivid, while my memories of those same years have turned into something more condensed and abstract. It’s not so much that my memory is fading, but I am so far removed from being a child it almost seems as though I’ve always been an adult.

In spite of the added years and the added pounds and the infuriatingly persistent breakouts of acne, I have one advantage over you and that is I know what comes next. I know what happens to you tomorrow and the next day and the day after because I’ve lived it. I know you’re unsure about going to college, will drop out (more than once) and continually question what it is you’re meant to do with your life. I wish I could tell you this is something you’ll figure out soon enough, but it’s not. What I can tell you is that deep down you know exactly what it is you’re meant to do, and in spite of what others may have said or will say to discourage you, you’ll be damn good at it some day.

I know you’re worried no one will love you. I know you’re going to hurt someone and get hurt yourself before you find someone you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with. He’ll love you in a way you never knew was possible and will put up with a lot of your shit. If you don’t have shit now, you’re going to create some because that’s what we do when we get older. We create a lot of shit for ourselves.

You’re going to be a mother some day. It’s not going to happen for a while because you’ll continue to think of motherhood as an end; an end to sleep, an end to solitude and an end to your dreams. But it is so not that. It’s the beginning of something wonderful and glorious and with it comes a whole new set of dreams you never imagined before. For the first time ever you won’t care what life has in store for you as long as you get to spend it with this child.

You’ll make mistakes. Big ones. You’ll make them and hate yourself for them, but the world won’t end because of them. You’ll fight with people you love, spend too much time with people who don’t love you back and continually try to figure out who you are and what your purpose is.

You are, and will continue to be, a work in progress.

Love,

Me
(the still unfinished product)