A Letter to My Younger Self

Do you ever think about the things you imagined would be in your life when you were a kid, what you’d be when you grew up? Did you think you’d win the Miss America pageant? I did. I even taught myself to do ventriloquism, complete with a dummy named Danny in preparation for the pageant life. Do you imagine you’d become a famous artists? When my fifth grade art teacher told my parents I was talented, I imagined myself becoming an artist. Neither of those two aspirations panned out.

When our dreams fall apart, we can be harsh on ourselves and settle for less demanding ones. I did that too. I went to college and learned a career I thought would give me a solid financial standing and a degree of satisfaction. Brief years into the career, I loathed it, and spent a lot of time searching for work that would align with who I was: teacher’s aide, grade school teacher, ice cream store clerk (not as fun as it sounds.) Eventually, I learned I wanted to be a writer and I became a newspaper and radio reporter.

Boy, I loved the job, but I had a lot to learn beyond writing, and anxiety became my middle name. I had to push through it to be successful, but it didn’t let up, I just learned to keep hoping I wouldn’t fail. Daily mantras were my friend to distract myself from the fears.

If I could do one thing for that version of me, it would be to write a letter to her and let her know that she’s doing the right thing. Everything is going to work out.

I remember my first assignment as a reporter, and it wasn’t a front-page spread. It was just a little piece on a small community considering whether or not to allow snowmobiles to drive in town. But for me, it was a big deal. I managed to gather the appropriate information, complete with town dignitary quote, though I’m certain I trembled so much that the whole city council knew I was afraid. That night I raced home from the meeting and pounded out the story in time to submit for the next day’s paper. I didn’t sleep that night.

For another assignment I had to interview a lawyer who didn’t think much of reporters. He was terse with his responses to my questions and essentially told me I didn’t know what I was doing. With my fragile heart, that was about as harsh as it got. It rocked me, but not off my foundation because I had a support system at the newspaper office. You can imagine the lawyer jokes.

In this same letter, I’d also tell younger me that sometimes things take a while, to be patient and diligent and trust in the path forward. That should have been my mantra back then. And when I segued into writing novels, too, it would have been something solid to hang onto when everything inside was Jell-O. It’s funny to think back and remember the first time I pressed the publish button when I self-published a book. My former publisher had been sold to another company, leaving me and other authors high and dry, so I turned to self-publishing. That decided, I trembled at my computer, afraid I’d done something terribly wrong and everyone was going to find out I was a fraud. Now days, its commonplace to press that button and sit back and enjoy the ride of self-publishing.

I’d also write to younger me that it’s important to learn personal values and invest in expressing them. The feelings derived from doing that are better than having a best-selling book, though that is great too. Living from your heart with honesty and integrity is a solid basis for success, I’d tell her.

Yes, all along the path to where I stand now I made mistakes, tried new tacks, changed my voice, but none of those things proved fatal. They were part of my learning curve. So to my younger self, I’d say: Everything is going to be okay.

What would you tell your younger self if you could?

“This was a great book. Very clean and refreshing.

I would recommend this book to all my friends.”

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