To a Younger Me

Dear younger self,

A friend of mine told me that there is a trend lately to write a letter to one's younger self. It's supposed to help people love themselves and embrace the ways in which they have matured. I decided to sit down and write to you, younger self. Who knows if I will actually experience any revelations or if I even have wisdom to offer you. I feel like I am almost writing to a stranger; it’s so difficult to return to who I was, even just four years ago, as a senior in high school. Yet, I also so vividly remember what it felt like to wait for college acceptances and rejections, to prioritize getting into Georgetown in my daily prayers, to feel like I was about to leave a school that was everything I had ever known but perhaps somewhere I had never fully belonged.

Recently I re-read some of my old journals, and it is was oddly disconcerting. As I read, I felt a powerful sense of déjà vu, as though I was writing and reading my own words simultaneously. It felt as though I had just experienced those things, had felt the emotions only moments ago. The words felt like my own, and yet, they belonged to a stranger; my voice has grown and matured, but I feel an affinity with my younger voice too.

It made me wistful to read my insecurities, fears, and excitement for the future. If I could tell my younger self a few things I’ve finally learned, I would emphasize the joy of loving oneself, accepting oneself, and enjoying oneself in the moment. I needed the experiences I have had in college to finally become more self-confident, self-assured, knowledgeable, and experienced.

I remember that sense of being vulnerable and trying to overcome the numbness of my nervous shock before leaving for Georgetown for the first time. Other people seemed more emotional, more cognizant of the importance of the occasion; I felt as though I were going to some unknown land, worried that getting into Georgetown had been a fluke, and felt utterly in limbo. There’s something about a senior year that makes one feel simultaneously the most invested in a place one has ever been and abruptly nudged out of the nest. “You are an integral part of our community. See ya!”

A challenge I have faced in both my high school and college career is becoming comfortable with starting anew. So looking back at my senior high school self, I can clearly advise you to just jump in, think positively, anticipate places you want to visit, things you want to do, activities you want to join, imagine the people you will meet and grow to love. Even as I give this advice, it’s impossible to separate the then from the now, as this is a challenge I am on the verge of facing once more.

I have never loved Georgetown more than I do now. Of course, I experienced a variety of phases of love, each intense in its unique way: I faced newly-wed love as a freshman, in awe of the beautiful campus and the diverse people and new experiences; I underwent the “7 year itch” with my sophomore slump, when I was overloaded on stress; and I endured the heartache of a year’s separation from my beloved Georgetown when I went abroad. Now it’s all coalescing, and I’m overdosing on poignant moments and delightfully comfortable friendships, fixating on how wonderful it feels to belong, to be home.

So I’m trying, younger self, to give you wisdom and to learn from your wisdom, too. Perhaps it is time to think about how I’ve done it before, leaving to begin my college career at a campus I had never even stepped foot on. Twice. My pre-Georgetown self and my pre-Oxford self, and in a sense, even my pre-returning-to-Georgetown self each overcame fears and reservations and insecurities to fall in love with my new homes.

I want to tell you, don’t feel scared to tell people you’ll miss them terribly and express how much they mean to you. Don’t think that leaving home for the first real time means you will never return. Confront the worst-case scenario: if you can’t succeed at Georgetown, you’ll find somewhere you will. Start researching DC while simultaneously savoring your lasts at home. Revel in the lack of Kansas jokes. Enjoy being 18-on-the-verge-of-something-huge; you’ll never be that person again.

You didn’t appreciate yourself enough. You put yourself down, you wondered if you would ever be good enough, you questioned if you were shooting too high, you questioned if you could start over in a completely new place. I know now how wonderful you are. I know that you should have given yourself more credit. I know that you will achieve a great deal.

Please help me, younger self, to close the gap between the kind of insecurity you experienced and affirmation of self I can now provide you with. I want to feel that way about me, now, in this moment. And to a large extent, I do, certainly more than I ever have before. I’ll never be a 21-year-old-senior-at-Georgetown ever again. While I am too aware of this at times, the transience of this year, I truly am living up this year as much as I can.

I love it here. I love myself here. And I’m gradually confronting my nerves about what’s to come, my next new home. You have helped me to do so, younger self. Thank you.

Love,

Me