A Letter to my Younger Self

Dear younger me,

It’s hard to believe we’re almost eligible for Medicare. It seems like just yesterday we were starting out in this world. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not done yet. I’m hoping we have at least 20 or 30 good years ahead of us. But I thought now was a good time to reflect on some of the regrettable things we did when we were that energetic young woman, that idealistic but not as wise version of the person we are today.

I realize you’re not responsible for anything we did before we were 18. The brain isn’t fully developed then, so I can’t blame you for all that happened during those perilous years. As the baby of the family, it took us a long time to find our independence and our voice. We struggled to define ourself, and find comfort outside the safety of home. We finally started to break away, to rebel, as we reached our teens. Our friends became our family, and we pushed back against mom and dad. There were lies told and secrets kept, but that behavior was a normal part of growing up. The synapses were firing away, still forming connections back then.  They still are, but not as rapidly now.

However, younger me, I think you owe us an apology for the haphazard way you started our career and young adult life. You spent months after college graduation agonizing over finding the perfect job. You wanted nothing more than to be a journalist, writing intriguing human-interest stories like you had as the editor of the college arts magazine.  After searching for months, what did you choose? That ridiculous position as an editorial assistant at  a trade magazine for travel agents.

We were assigned to write short articles about tourist destinations, getting no bylines in return. We could barely live in New York City for the $11.50 an hour you earned. We had to share that small apartment on Fourth Avenue in the Village, which was not a great part of town back then. Our roommate insisted on quiet every day while she meditated and burned incense. She would get annoyed if anything interrupted her practice.

To make matters worse, the only thing that came out of that slave-labor editorial  job was meeting Dave, who wasted three years of our youth. His career was floundering just like ours, and he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. It was bad enough that you dated him, but did we really have to move in with him? I understand you were desperate to get away from incense girl and that cramped and depressing third floor walkup.  What made you think playing house with Dave was the answer?

At least we moved into an apartment with an elevator, so that was good. For a while, it  seemed like we would never break up with Dave. I lost a lot of sleep over that. He wasn’t a terrible  person - I just didn’t see us spending our life with him. I wish I could have told you that, but you never would have listened. When the relationship ended a year later, at least we got the apartment. Mom and dad were so relieved he was out of our life that they happily helped with the rent so we could live alone. They didn’t want to deal with any more quirky roommates or live-in boyfriends. They knew we could do better and thank goodness you realized that as well. We were in our mid-20’s. We wouldn’t get those youthful years back, but we had to live and learn and make our own mistakes. That’s how these things go.

After the Dave saga, we went through another adolescent stage, as if the first one wasn’t enough. We spent the summers of our mid and late 20s in the Hamptons, hanging out with friends on the beach by day and drinking fruity cocktails and dancing late into the night. You flirted with and kissed way too many guys, but I suppose we were only young once.  We fell into lots of short and frivolous relationships and got our heart broken often during those years. And then finally – finally – we met a truly good guy, Tom, and things started to look up. 

During that time, we’d had the sense to leave that first mindless job, moving on to another trade magazine before finally giving up on journalism. We decided on Marketing and slowly worked our way up, eventually landing a position in the marketing department at a major international airline. Instead of articles, we wrote proposals and sales letters and ad copy. It wasn’t what we planned, but we made it work.

As we were sorting out our career, things grew serious with Tom and eventually we decided to get married. No more dancing until dawn and kissing guys in bars – thank goodness. That always made me nervous. I knew our little girl was growing up the day we walked down the aisle. Tom was so dependable, such a good influence on us. We were finally on a path to adulthood and stability. We put those turbulent years behind us and were ready at 30 to start living like an adult. It was a long road getting there.

Life as a newlywed was wonderful. We bought a cozy home in the suburbs and for the first time ever, the road to the future was in sharp focus.  Starting a family was our next step, but who knew how much raising children would steer us off that smooth path and into unknown territory. We should have known what to expect. After all, hadn’t we been through childhood and all those stages of youth not long ago? We couldn’t have forgotten everything. Yet it was so different from this perspective. We were suddenly the parent, saying no and setting boundaries, worrying and fretting over everything our kids did. We seemed to have little control over the way they acted and the choices they made. It was all those darn synapses doing their thing, and we were often helpless, unable to take control of the wheel.

During that time, Tom held down the fort with his solid job and steady temperament, but our professional life took a back seat. All that hard work to find the right career path faded away as we raised the kids, spending days driving them to ballet and sleepovers and later SAT prep classes. We volunteered in their schools, serving as class mom and library helper and organizing bagel breakfast fundraisers. Anything to make sure they were happy and successful and safe.

We lost a bit of ourselves in those years. When the kids finally grew up and went off to their chosen colleges and launched their own careers, we started over and – once again – struggled to establish ourself in the workplace and in the world. It was a third adolescence of sorts as we adjusted to an empty nest that seemed to take us by surprise. Didn’t we remember what life was like before we had children? Apparently not. It was as if all that came before parenthood had to be re-learned. We had to re-orient our relationship with Tom and adjust to days that didn’t involve daily conversations about their lives and futures.  It was time to start living our own.

Again, mistakes were made as we sorted out how to spend those post children-rearing years. Maybe it was just another normal phase of live, but we couldn’t seem to escape those growing up traumas, even in our 50’s. We eventually settled on a satisfying part time job and a few meaningful volunteer positions in the community. They occupied our time but left us free to be there for the kids, who thankfully still needed us. Our dad is still there for us when we need him. It was only fitting that we do the same for our children.

Things are stable again as we prepare for the Medicare years. There are still more journeys and more learning ahead, especially as we anticipate our kids meeting the right people and settling down. Can you imagine us a grandmother?  The same girl who kissed boys and drank summer cocktails and danced as if we didn’t have a care in the world? The cycle of life is an amazing thing.

Sixty plus years is a long road. I feel we’re entitled to a seventh inning stretch, a long nap, maybe a Caribbean cruise, after all we’ve been through. There have been unbearably painful moments over these years, like losing our mom to cancer, and amazing, life-changing ones, like giving birth. There have also been 1,000 moments in between on all points on the emotional spectrum from joyous to unbearable. Some moments were both, like watching our kids pull out of the driveway for the first time as licensed drivers and, later, seeing them pack up and head off to college. I suppose lifetimes are made up of these little moments, all blurred together and yet each one distinct.

So, younger me, I am asking your forgiveness for the mistakes of our past because we can’t move on from our failures until we make peace with them. Pitfalls are part of life but growing older and wiser is not just about aging, but processing and reflecting on both the good and bad things that happen along the way. 

We’ve had a pretty good life, all things considered. Let’s start with a clean slate as we prepare to face the future. With any luck, our best days are still ahead of us.

Love,

The older me