against mourning

what to do with your younger self’s vision for you

Dear Emily,

When I was only a handful of years old, our neighbors started calling me The Good Doctor because I liked to have people lay on the couch and tell me what hurt so that I could diagnose and boss them into feeling better. Keep it elevated. Take a nap. Drink soup. My suggestions were never sip this magic potion or sit still while I wave my wand over it. I was a child, not an imbecile.

Fast-forward to seeing Legally Blonde at age 11, which obviously meant I spent most of my teenage years thinking I would be a hot, high-powered executive of some sort (probably to boss people around some more). I envisioned myself wearing heels. I saw myself having a daughter but no partner (I didn’t need a man; I was rich enough to afford childcare). 

Ten years later I wanted to be a physicist. Shortly after, a famous poet. 

Today I can barely describe what I do.¹ I am not a doctor. I have not birthed a child and I do not click clack down hallways telling people what to do. I’ve forgotten how to solve differential equations and all of linear algebra and everything about thermodynamics. I’ve never published a single poem.

Before I make myself cry, let’s look at the topic you asked me to write about in this newsletter:

“Mourning your younger self’s vision of who you might have been.” 

Emily, when you first sent this to me, I thought I didn’t have anything to say. But for the last three weeks, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

So today, I am going to tell you what to do, which might be my oldest calling in this life. But only because you asked me to.

First, let me get something out of the way: I am not someone who knows about time. Every birthday has felt like some version of, “welp, I guess this is 29.” I don’t know when anything happened in history; important dates slip through the cracks of my brain like water through stones. This blindspot has its disadvantages, and not just for looking backwards. I am not a big dreamer. I’ve never had a five-year plan. I’ve never made a vision board. 

But there are a couple perks, which I think could help us today: 1) I am not prone to regrets; I can see neither forwards nor backwards and thus am not generally plagued by could’ve-beens or what-ifs. 2) If a lack of one sense strengthens the others, I think I might be very good at sensing what’s happening right now. Not to say that I’m always clear-minded, but I don’t generally have issues taking things for granted. When things are going well, every single day I think, “holy shit this is going so well.” And when things are going poorly there’s not a day I don’t think, “wow this is going so poorly.” Actually, that’s another con: I have trouble remembering that things won’t always lean pleasant or painful. It’s like that fireplace scene in Garden State, except it’s my whole life, I’m in it right now. 

I digress. 

You, I think, are blessed and cursed with knowing more about time. This is wonderful because your present self can imagine all sorts of new futures (exciting!), but I can tell it’s also painful because your past self can’t stop imagining all sorts of different presents (not exciting at all, pls stop!).

The pain, I think, comes from thinking we’ve disappointed our younger selves. We hear our younger selves say something like: I thought we were going to be a rock star. And we feel wounded: I must be such a disappointment to you.

Here’s what you’re going to do: 

1. First of all, stop it. Stop taking what your younger self is observing about you and getting your feelings hurt. It is keeping you from actually hearing her. And if you want to feel better, you have to hear her out. (I know it’s uncomfortable when anyone is disappointed in us, but that discomfort is besides the point.)

2. Sit somewhere quiet, close your eyes, and imagine your younger self. Feel her presence in your body. Heat. Pressure. A tingle. Ask her what she wanted you to become.
   
   *This is important: If you cannot put your discomfort aside to truly, open-heartedly listen to your younger self, or if she’s not talking to you (probably because she’s afraid of your big feelings), you may need to access a wise older self first. It doesn’t have to be you in 50 years—I have a heck of a time picturing myself at any age other than the one I am now. So I envision Grandmother Willow from Pocahontas. You could conjure Betty White. Anyway, whatever older, wiser figure you land on, you’ll bring her with you. You’ll close your eyes, feel her with you, and together you’ll ask your younger self what she once imagined for you.

3. Once you’ve heard your younger self out, tell her why you didn’t become a famous singer or whatever. Do this with your wise older woman with you (she’ll keep you generous and loving toward yourself). Your younger self’s frustration might stem from confusion, and it will do you both a lot of good to take account of why, exactly, things didn’t go the way she wanted. Maybe you fell into a depression, maybe you lost a family member. Maybe you needed fifty grand to pull that dream off and you only had fifty bucks. Maybe you changed your mind. Maybe you changed your priorities.
   
   *She may not be terribly understanding of your reasoning. She’s young, after all. That’s okay, the point is the attempt. Knowledge can be incredibly consoling, but it’s not the only consolation there is. 

4. Let her call you on your bullshit. This is where the magic happens. If there are any holes in your reasoning, she’ll call you on ‘em. I don’t know how, but children know. This clarity is a gift, Emily. It probably won’t feel like it, but you’ve got Grandmother Willow or Betty White or Michelle Obama there with you. You’ll be okay.

5. Here’s where it gets fun. The only way to know what your younger self needs to feel better is to ask her. Our younger selves, more than anything else, want two things: 1) to be heard (congrats, you just did that) and 2) to be included. And, lucky for all of us, our younger selves often don’t need the biggest, grandest version of their dreams for us. If they wanted us to be a rock star, they may need you to pick up your dusty guitar. Or put on a living room show to friends who adore you. Or busk once a week in the subway.
   
   You won’t know until you ask. “I know we didn’t become a famous singer, but would you like voice lessons?” “I know we never wore a sequined dress while headlining at Madison Square Garden, but would you like to wear jeans and a cute top and go to karaoke every once in a while?”
   
   Notice how your body feels, what lights you up, what makes you smile or ugly cry. Notice what feels like nothing.

6. Whatever you decide to do next, follow through and follow up. Do the thing you agreed to do, then check in with her after: did you have a good time? Did you feel safe? Do you feel proud of me? What’ll we get into next?

I could’ve written you a post about mourning. About letting go. About accepting the realities of adulthood that our inner child can’t grasp. But I didn’t, because fuck that. I honestly don’t believe our younger selves want us to mourn or let go or accept everything as it is. I think they want us to integrate. I think they want us to live a life so big that there’s room for everything, even some version of that silly dream they’re still carrying a torch for. I think they want us to be brave enough to really hear them, to actually, seriously consider moving toward the life they still believe is yours. 

I think your younger self wants you to feel desire and act on it. And I think that if you desire something, it’s already yours.

In the long list of things I never became, the only one that ever really stung was never publishing any poetry. When I finally pitched FREQUENT CRIERS CLUB to my younger self, she beamed. Emily, I could feel her. I still can. We don’t have to mourn. We have to listen.

"Maybe in another lifetime." by Bianca Sparacino

CRIERS TO THE COMMENTS 👇🏻

Have you ever had a conversation with your younger self and an older, wiser self? Or in my case, older wiser completely fictitious talking tree? How’d it go?

What does your younger self want for you that you’ve been trying to mourn or let go of? Maybe it will feel good just to name it.

1.  newsletter producer / growth strategist / creative collaborator / editor???