This weekend I took a break from the city and visited home. It was nice: sleeping in my own room, snuggling with my dogs and waking up to birds instead of horns.
When I was home I was shifting through my closet, picking clothes to take back. On the top shelf I found my “memory box” as I call it. It’s basically just a shoe box where I keep things that remind me of important things in my life: my old ballet costume, my NYU acceptance letter, postcards from places I’ve been to, etc. In there were some letters I had written to myself. Cliche I know.
It started when I was 18 and had ended my first semester of college. She wrote to 19 year old me, and 19 year old me eventually answered. I think 19 year old me forgot to write to 20 year old me. Nevertheless, I still replied. I even wrote a letter to 21 year old me. All these letters generally ask the same types of questions. How am I doing? How are friends, grades, clubs? The one question that always pops up though is, am I happy? Am I happy with where I am and what I’m doing?
For the past couple of years I’ve answered with an “I don’t know.” I’d be lying if I said that the last 3 years haven’t been confusing. I suppose a good chunk of it has been cathartic, but it’s also been bringing back old insecurities and generating new fears. The short time that I’ve been at school is when I’ve felt the most vulnerable in my life. I can’t quite say that I’m happy with the way things are right now. It’s something I’m still trying to work at, and sometimes things just don’t go the way I want them to. I just hope that by the time I write the next letter, 21 year old me will be a happier person.
Whenever I think back to writing the first letter, I wonder what 18 year old me were to think of me now. Would she be impressed? Disappointed? Would she worry or get excited? I do believe that I’ve changed quite a lot the past 2 years, but have I made the changes that I wanted? Or have I changed in ways that I didn’t expect or even desire?