Letter to my younger self.
Here’s the thing – I’m not going to tell you that it will all be okay. Not going to tell you that it won’t. It’s the time-travel conundrum. Go back, change one thing, and the world blinks out of existence. Butterflies and typhoons.
If I try to steer you, warn you about the disasters and deaths, explain the lifelong insomnia, fill in those blanks – who’s to say we won’t end up destroying time? Or at the very least missing out on a few of the good things that did happen in there along with the bad. And if I tell you about now, who we become, who we know, what we do … will that make you lazy or tired, make you give up or not try hard enough?
Besides, we’re not done becoming.
Here’s what I will say, Michaela, 16. I know. So much of the pain has already happened. I remember. There’s more to come. I see you. And here’s one spoiler, hopefully small enough not to unbalance reality — though sometimes you will forget to notice the beauty – you always remember again. After 41 years, that seems to be more than a hypothesis.
And you are loved. You will be loved. I love you.