letter to my 20 year old self

what i wish i knew then

Hello friends,

It’s mind-boggling to me that there are 1,200+ of you reading along. What a gift!

These days, I write this newsletter from the greatest place of peace I’ve had in my life. By no means is everything figured out, but I do have more clarity on who I am and what matters to me. I’m twenty-six now, in the exciting stages of becoming and building a life.

Over the past year, I’ve written about learning how to eat again, falling in love, and taking big swings. These essays are bound by a common thread of lessons learned and lessons learning.

It’s easier to write about how I’m getting it together and less comfortable to share about how I fell apart.

But the latter is essential to understand the former.

At twenty, I lost myself. Swept up in the riptide of alcohol, drugs, thinness, bad relationships, things fell apart with impressive alacrity. Much of it happened studying abroad in Barcelona.

This is the primary reason I came back to Spain.

I needed to face these memories shoved far, far down. I prayed that walking the Barcelona streets would transport me back to who I was then so I could forgive her.

I’ve been working through this with an amazing therapist and an army of great friends, family, and of course, sweet G. I’m grateful to feel so supported. 

In all of it, I’m reminded that forgiveness is an inside job.

One of the exercises I did recently was to write to my twenty year old self. I’ve shared it below.

In therapy I read it outloud and I couldn’t keep myself from crying. Shoulders heaving, it did not escape me that I finally have the words now that I needed then.

What would you tell yourself at twenty if you could? 

What I would tell my 20 year old self

Hi there, here come on in. Sit down on the couch, make yourself comfortable. 

I brought you a blanket. I can see that you’re cold, you're shaking. 

It’s okay to not have it figured out. 

Here, let’s wash your face. Here, I turned on the heater. 

Take this warm soup and fresh bread. 

Yes, you can eat it. You can eat it without earning it. All of this, you don’t need to earn.

Love isn’t a calculation and a negotiation and a manipulation. 

If your body screams to get out, you can listen to it. 

I know you can’t hear your body right now that you’ve silenced it, but you will again. I promise you. 

You’re going to hear yourself think, 

your own voice, not this punishing, chiding, neurotic parroting. 

There will be reprieve from the innecessant reprimanding. 

You haven’t done anything wrong and even for what you’ve done, you’re forgiven.

All in all, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve always loved you and I will always love you. 

I know you think you are a deserted house, abandoned, desolate, and beyond repair, but we’re going to feed you. 

You will taste again. 

You’re going to be held by people who love you and don’t want anything from you.