Something New

I had completely forgotten about the letter. When I wrote it eight years ago, I’d imagined my future self picking it up off an expensive doormat and reading through what was essentially an impressive laundry list of things I had already accomplished.

The letter was something they’d encouraged us to write in our third year of high school; we were asked to write to our future selves, or a version of them anyway. At first, no one really took the assignment seriously- it was only for extra credit, after all- but when I got home after soccer practice that afternoon, I found myself sitting in front of the blank piece of paper with an unexpected sense of weight. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with something I had been side-eyeing for the last few years. My future.

What would it look like? What did I even want it to look like? I began to imagine myself progressing past each step of the path: graduating high school, then college, moving to some distant city for a highly paid job I was passionate about. The more I thought about it, the more sure I became that this was the future that was awaiting me. How could it not be? My teachers always said I was full of promise, and why shouldn’t I fulfill that? Back then, I couldn’t fathom anything getting in the way of my hopes.

But now, looking down at the letter sitting on my very-much-not-expensive doormat, I shake my head at my old teenage tunnel vision. I didn’t have to open the letter to know what was in it- the self-congratulatory list of achievements I’d expected to own by the time I was the ripe old age of 25. For a brief moment, I wondered how the letter had found its way to me, but then I saw the forwarding postmark and realized they must have sent it to my parents address, who forwarded it on to me.

So here it was, unopened and yet staring me in the face, a raised eyebrow of expectation. Had I done any of the things I’d imagined doing back then? Let’s see…graduated high school? Check. Graduated college? Semi-check, the community college I’d opted for to save money was hardly the ivy-league that my teenage self had imagined swanning into after acing the entrance exam. Moved to another city for a high-flying, yet fascinating career which would have all my ex-classmates turning a shade of olive green? Not quite.

I had moved across the state, just far enough that the chances of running into someone on the street who knew my parents or coached my little league team was close to zero. And the job, well, that was a work in progress. My associates degree in social work had been a good move and, after years of saving while I lived in my parent’s house, I had finally been able to afford moving into an apartment on my own.

It was hardly the penthouse view I’d expected at age sixteen, but I liked it, in a way. The pile of sneakers by the door were all my own and exclusively in my favorite colors. And the dog currently snoring on the second-hand sofa was mine, too. Every afternoon, as I got home from work, I found Matty bounding around by the front door, tripping over the sneakers as she tried to lick my face. Something about her quizzical mixed-breed eyebrows made me doubt that she’d put up with the long hours away from home required by a high-flying executive job.

I sighed, hands running over the unbroken seal of the envelope, and gazed out of the small living room window which overlooked the street. As I watched the passersby, it was like seeing a real-life reenactment of every small, pervasive reason that the hopeful letters we write to future selves never come true.

A woman walked by pushing a stroller, giving off a restless, caged energy as if she could actually sense the weight of paths untaken. Meanwhile, a man sitting at a coffee shop across the street watched her, and I could almost see him picturing what his life would have been if he’d made time to build a family of his own. Two teenagers passed, walking hand in hand as if their connection made them bulletproof against the world they still know so little of. An old woman stooped over a cane as she passed a group of twenty-somethings, perhaps wondering what might have been if she’d opted to focus on her own friends instead of submitting to the opinions of others.

And in no time at all, I was the restless one. 

I stood, startling the dog from her position on the couch, feeling an urge to get out, away somehow, or maybe to do something? Before I knew it, I had my sneakers on, and Matty and I were outside, making for the trail which ran along the river at the edge of town. The letter sat in my jacket pocket. I was now one of the passersby, and I wondered what could be said about my own missed opportunities. 

The time I’d said no to a date because I was worried I hadn’t studied enough for a quiz which ended up getting canceled anyway. The time I’d ditched my friends at a concert because I’d wanted my brother’s friends to think I was cool. The countless times afterwards that I’d failed to reach out to those same friends, letting old relationships peter out in favor of new ones.

Walking along the river, legs brushing against the dry reeds which hunched over the path, I suddenly felt I was in the middle of a labyrinth, like I’d only know I was headed for a dead end when I ran straight into it. It all felt useless, and weightless, and guideless all at the same time, and I found myself wishing I’d tied a rope around my waist before I’d started. But teenage Sophia hadn’t thought she’d need a rope; try hard, be nice, and the path will become clear. Only it hadn’t.

I didn’t hate my life, I knew that. In fact, I quite liked it, but the arrival of this self-addressed letter had opened my eyes to a disappointment I hadn’t known was there. A disappointment which muttered that if my past self could see me now, sitting on a bench with my worn sneakers and my funny dog and nothing but the calling marsh birds for company, she’d be utterly crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and Matty looked up at me with watery eyes. “You don’t understand what it’s like out here.”

Finally, I pulled the letter out of my jacket pocket and held it in my hands. For a brief moment, I considered dropping it straight into the twitching eddies at the edge of the river without reading a word. But my hands didn’t move. Realizing after a moment that I was still holding it, I took a deep breath and broke the seal.

Dear Sophia,

I don’t know where you are, or who you are right now, but I’d like you to know that you’re me. I don’t know what’s happened in the time between me writing this and you reading this, and so I wasn’t really sure what to say to you. I actually threw away my first attempt at this letter because, well, I don’t think it was right.

In that letter, I talked about all the things I imagined for our future- the job, the friends, the house, the life that I’d like to have. But as I was writing it, I realized something. None of those things actually matter to me. It doesn’t matter if we move out of town, or if we live down the street from our parents for the rest of our lives. It doesn’t matter if we drive a nice car or a beat up old Toyota we bought from Uncle Ted. It doesn’t matter if we have an ivy-league diploma hanging in our corner office or just the certificate I got last week for good attendance (not even great attendance, yikes).

The point is, I don’t want to be the reason you feel dissatisfied with your life. If you are happy and fulfilled and excited, even if it looks completely different to how I’m imagining it now, then that is, really and honestly, okay. So the next time you make a decision about where to live or who to date or whether to date anyone at all, I want you to forget about me. Becoming someone different isn’t a betrayal, it’s a blessing.

And the only thing I ask is that you are grateful for the time that you’ve had to become something new.

With love,

Sophia