A letter to my 40-year-old self on the eve of my 30th birthday

Dear me,

You weren’t my first choice. Sorry. I wanted to get that out of the way, to avoid any awkwardness.

I actually started writing this to our 20-year-old self. Remember her? Chipper perfectionist? Insufferable beanpole? Slowly losing her grip on reality and clawing for purchase on everything she thought she knew? Yeah. Me neither. Depression’s really done a number on our memory.

But everything I wrote to our 20-year-old self was shit, and honestly, it made me feel like shit. Like, wow, I guess all that writing “talent” really was just precociousness and a preternaturally expansive vocabulary! Pull off the sheet and there it is! And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for my meddling impossible expectations for myself!

Anyway.

I decided to change tactics. If exorcising the ghosts of Birthdays Past felt too chilling, maybe it’d be less scary to scry into the future. So here I am, writing to you, because I have something very important to request.

I’m here for your secrets.

Yes! Your secrets, I want to know everything. This is a stick-up. Hands in the air, buddy! Hand ’em all over and nobody gets hurt.