Dear 17-Year-Old-Self

I know you’re looking off to the side because the guy at Photorama told you to.
Look over there, wistfully.

You probably didn’t even know what wistful meant back then.

I’m writing to you because I’ve been helping plan our 30-year reunion with a group of friends.

We’ve been going through old yearbooks, tracking people down, and there you are. Feathered hair. Perfect skin. God, the skin.

And it got me thinking—what would I actually say to you now?

Dear 17-year-old self—

I see the lack of confidence in your eyes.

You won’t believe this, but you become confident. Not overnight, not all at once, but enough that one day you stand on a stage in front of 500 people and casually swear into a microphone.

photo courtesy of Brandi Lee

Dear 17-year-old self—

You think you’ll never leave your small town.

You will. And you’ll cry when you do. You’ll cross the Ohio border and wonder what you’ve done.

But eventually, you’ll build a life somewhere else, and it will feel like home.

But if I could ask you to do one thing, it would be this: travel before you get married. Or at least before kids.

Dear 17-year-old self—

You don’t think you’re going to do anything important.

You will.

Not in the way you think. Not in a straight line. But you will find something that feels like yours.

You’ll become a writer. You’ll have a blog—yes, that’s a real thing—and you’ll write for people you’ve never met. It will feel exciting and frustrating and completely right.

It will take you a long time to get there.

Dear 17-year-old self—

You think your grades define you.

They don’t.

You won’t go to college right away. You’ll work. A lot. You’ll take your first college class at 24. Life will interrupt everything—marriage, a baby, a divorce, moving back in with mom and dad, becoming a single mom.

And then, somehow, you’ll figure it out.

You’ll go to school full-time, work at the college tutoring students—which, I know, makes no sense to you right now—and you’ll graduate at 36 with highest honors.

You’ll cry when you walk across that stage, wishing your high school teachers could see you.

This is the part you don’t know yet: there isn’t one right timeline. There isn’t one version of success.

Dear 17-year-old self—

You’re afraid of losing your friends.

You will lose some. That’s just how it goes.

But the ones who matter will stay, and there will be others you haven’t even met yet who will become just as important.

Dear 17-year-old self—

Mom and dad won’t always live close.

I know that feels impossible right now.

You won’t see them every day, but your relationship with them will grow in ways you can’t understand yet. Your kids will love them. You’ll still feel held by them, even from far away.

Dear 17-year-old self—

That boy you love right now isn’t the one.

But you do find your person.

And it’s not about big, dramatic moments. It’s everyday life. Dishes. Bills. Sick kids. Showing up. Having each other’s back.

That’s what love actually looks like.

So don’t rush anything, but also… get here.

Life is hard and messy and sometimes really heavy. But it’s also better than you think it’s going to be.

I’ll be the one at the reunion with glasses and short hair.

I know. I didn’t see that coming either.

Love,
Me