Letter to the Version of Me Who Was Trying So Hard

Dear younger me,

Listen to your mom when she says to enjoy being young.

Education was a focal point growing up. You learned early that gold stars and straight A’s were how people saw your worth. Schools that promoted academic rigor were all you knew. At 16, you were already learning how to balance a job with school. Not out of necessity, but out of choice. You carried that with you into college, when you took extra classes to graduate early while working full-time, because rest felt like a synonym to failure. Your last year of college was a blur with professors telling you they were worried when your internship became a job that could have destroyed your future.

And when that wasn’t enough, you chased the next thing. You went straight into your career — headfirst, determined, disciplined. You looked at your coworkers buying houses, getting married, and starting families. Instead of considering the age gap, you wondered why you were “behind”. Then you thought, law school? Because you thought more meant better. You didn’t stop to ask what you wanted deep down — only what would prove you could do hard things. And when law school became too much, you pivoted to an MBA immediately, because quitting didn’t fit your narrative. Even with an overflowing plate, you never shied away. You met a teenager who needed someone, and next thing you knew you were a parent, an advocate, and safe space.

Then one day, you blinked — and you weren’t 20 anymore. You realized you didn’t have the college friendships everyone talked about, the ones built from spontaneous nights and campus events and heart-to-hearts on dorm floors. You hadn’t spent your weekends waitressing at a cute café or sneaking in road trips with friends. You were working, grinding, trying to fast-forward into adulthood. You were filling your brain with work details instead of memories and passions. And now, sometimes, you wish you could go back — to that dorm room, giggling over campus gossip, snacking on the treats your friends mom sent, letting yourself just be young. You wanted so badly to be a “grown-up” that you forgot to live during the part everyone calls the best years.

Some days, I’m deeply grateful for you — for your tenacity, your drive, the way you refused to settle. You built the foundation that holds me up today. You gave me choices, security, and the ability to take care of myself. But other days, I grieve for you. For the version of you who didn’t get to wander, to just enjoy existing without proving anything. It feels like you handed over your 20s in exchange for achievements you barely remember celebrating. Achievements that wear you down and burn you out some days.

Now, I’m learning that life doesn’t hand out medals for exhaustion. I’m learning that slowing down isn’t failure — that all things happen in due time. You did what you needed to survive a world that applauded hustle. But now, we’re learning how to rest, how to be still, how to balance. While also learning how to be grateful for where we are instead of wishing we were elsewhere. You can’t let life pass you by while you chase the next thing.

So thank you — for getting me here. I promise I’ll slow down for you. Listen to your mom when she says to enjoy being young, she’s almost always right.

To whoever is reading this, forgive the version of you who thought rest was weakness. Thank them for getting you here — and promise to start soaking in the moments they never had time for. Comment what you wish your younger self would have done or known. Check out my previous blog post to find out how my journey to find balance looked at first.