Aug 2021
You’re 17 years old and things are probably feeling a bit overwhelming. Surprise: that feeling kind of never goes away. It’s okay though, because you’re going to get a hell of a lot better at understanding the swirling dervish of thoughts, feelings, and experiences you’ll navigate as you get older.
It’s a bit weird talking to you, but I know how lost you feel. The good news is you have so many amazing things coming up. You’ll go to university, you’ll graduate (even though it is an utter slog, completely devastating and in many ways you’ll be convinced it wasn’t worth the tears – it was). You’ll land an internship and quickly learn that you’re in a generational sweet spot which offers you job insights your superiors will never understand. You’ll continue being wordy, writing and publishing with various magazines. You’ll meet some excellent humans, some not so excellent, and you’ll have your heart broken (or break your own heart) a dozen times over. It’ll be worth it.
You’ll meet a man who gathers you up while your breakup is still raw, your trust frayed, and your nerve lost. He’ll offer patience, Star Wars and burritos to soothe the ache in your chest. He’ll listen, laugh, and console you. He’ll remind you that there are so many great things in the world and it’s only with time you’ll come to understand just how special those things are.
You’re so eager to be grown up, to be at that place where you’re not scared anymore. Not left behind or ahead of the curve, just exactly where you’re meant to be. But that’s the secret – you’ll never be anywhere but where you’re supposed to be. You have the power to change your course if that’s what you need. You have the power to own your space, your decisions, your relationships, and your knowledge. You were sold a misguided truth growing up that the best is yet to come. That’s nonsense, really. The best is already here. The best is knowing you can wake up each day and carve out the past that best serves you.
You’re going to grow up to be an ardent feminist and advocate for human rights. Which makes sense when you think about what a self-righteous little **** you can be, and why the debate club leader was so sad you wouldn’t join. Your eyes will be opened to the atrocities of the world, and what feels like a bigger crime: the complacency of the masses. You’ll be exhausted fighting for what’s right, what’s fair, what’s equitable. It will be thankless work a lot of the time, but you’ll do it because you have such defined standards. You’ll learn to build boundaries, to protect your energy, to identify the causes worth throwing your all at and, eventually you’ll be supported in learning how to slow down, how to say no, how to not stretch yourself so thin your transparency leaves you bare and vulnerable. A hard lesson that will need constant reaffirming, but such a vital one.
One day, you’ll wake up and be ready to trust in the process. To find peace in the now, not be chasing an undefined future perfect, not be ill at ease in your own skin, not be troubled by standing still and taking in the beauty of the now. Grounding your feet in the floor, stopping to take in the plants you’ve nurtured, the relationship you’ve grown in, the home you’ve cultivated, the friendships you’ve developed. You’ll start to see just how much time you’ve spent fretting over futures and possibilities and uncertainties you never had a hope in hell of controlling.
That’s it, really. Control over everything is a pipedream and despite the desperation clawing at you to be able to touch something tangible, something certain, something so real and unmovable and eternal, there’s just no way for you to find that outside yourself. You’re getting to grips with that realisation now, and it still makes you cry, howl at the unfairness and thrash against the suffocating limits of reality. But you’ll also realise just how futile that is, laugh through those tears and settle in to figure out what the real root of your discomfort is. You’ll see how tired you are, how hard you’ve been working to make yourself better, and how pointless that framing is. You’ll commit to stepping away from self-defeating narratives and driving compassion for yourself and the world. God knows the world can use more compassion.
You’ll even return to university, despite your tumultuous experience in undergrad. Maybe partly because of it. You can’t let anyone else have the last word, after all, and will stop at nothing to prove yourself capable. You’ll learn more during that PhD than you’ll learn in your previous 25 years because it’s not just about the thesis. It’s hardly about the thesis at all. It’s about personal growth and development, it’s about finding ways to forgive your past thoughts, feelings, and experiences, and set up the best chance at self-kindness for the future. You’ll ruminate on some painful topics, explore the murky waters of the human condition, and you’ll still come out of it hopeful. Because, as you’ll realise in your exploration of violence online, it’s all about vulnerability. And vulnerability is beautiful. Vulnerability is the space for creativity, for growth, for changing direction, for exploring and for shifting stagnant, broken systems into forces for real, tangible change. Not just in governmental infrastructure or on Twitter.com but in yourself, too.
It’s such a painful relearning, unlearning, learning process. It’s messy (which I suppose is lucky because you never do learn how to keep your bedroom floor tidy, nor do you get over your aversion to ironing). And in that mess is opportunity. You just need to remember that your life, your ideas, your path not looking like other people’s doesn’t mean it’s wrong or lesser or a bad fit. It fits because it’s yours. You will have so much going for you and you’ll not always see it, but luckily you have friends and a partner who will remind you whenever you need it. And you’ll keep writing. Horrible, angsty, teenager poetry that makes you cringe and keeps you satisfied in equal measure. You’ll expel the worst of your thoughts, the most painful of your feelings, in an anonymous journal and it’ll be so cathartic. You’ll keep using your words to map your journey because it’s the only way you know how to communicate. You’ll still fear being misunderstood, but the panic won’t clutch you in a vice grip the same. You’ll let go (some) of that belief that misperception is the worst you can suffer – you’ll recognise that being misunderstood, misinterpreted, misconstrued is part of the mess of communication. You’ll even revel in it and explore it in academic settings as well as personal writings. You’ll see it’s somewhat a universal experience to feel not listened to, not truly heard. And you’ll grow a chosen family of active listeners, of empathetic, charismatic, compassionate souls who hear you and engage with you in ways you could never have dreamed, matching your passion toe to toe and giving you space to monologue as you pick apart ideas and theories in real time, and you’ll feel so cherished and accomplished in their company because they want to share space and energy with you. You will nourish each other in ways you can’t begin to put into words, it’s visceral and ethereal and intangible. It’s magic.
Time is a funny old thing. It’s intimately wrapped up in every experience – the past, the present, the future. The immediate experience of a thing, the aftermath, the impacts we can’t possibly predict but will undoubtedly live through down the line. Patience wasn’t really ever your strong suit, but you’ll learn to slow (if not stop) and take great pleasure in the minutia, wonder at that truly magnificent things in your life – the truly magnificent people that make your life all the richer.
Basically, you’ll be alright kiddo. Have faith in the process if you can’t find faith in yourself. The faith in yourself will come with time, a good few crying jags and a lot of positive reinforcement from very special people. It takes a village to raise a baby, so it makes sense it takes a community to grow a well-rounded soul like you.
You’re golden, Jane. You’ll see it one day.
Love, Jane
It’s a bit weird talking to you, but I know how lost you feel. The good news is you have so many amazing things coming up. You’ll go to university, you’ll graduate (even though it is an utter slog, completely devastating and in many ways you’ll be convinced it wasn’t worth the tears – it was). You’ll land an internship and quickly learn that you’re in a generational sweet spot which offers you job insights your superiors will never understand. You’ll continue being wordy, writing and publishing with various magazines. You’ll meet some excellent humans, some not so excellent, and you’ll have your heart broken (or break your own heart) a dozen times over. It’ll be worth it.
You’ll meet a man who gathers you up while your breakup is still raw, your trust frayed, and your nerve lost. He’ll offer patience, Star Wars and burritos to soothe the ache in your chest. He’ll listen, laugh, and console you. He’ll remind you that there are so many great things in the world and it’s only with time you’ll come to understand just how special those things are.
You’re so eager to be grown up, to be at that place where you’re not scared anymore. Not left behind or ahead of the curve, just exactly where you’re meant to be. But that’s the secret – you’ll never be anywhere but where you’re supposed to be. You have the power to change your course if that’s what you need. You have the power to own your space, your decisions, your relationships, and your knowledge. You were sold a misguided truth growing up that the best is yet to come. That’s nonsense, really. The best is already here. The best is knowing you can wake up each day and carve out the past that best serves you.
You’re going to grow up to be an ardent feminist and advocate for human rights. Which makes sense when you think about what a self-righteous little **** you can be, and why the debate club leader was so sad you wouldn’t join. Your eyes will be opened to the atrocities of the world, and what feels like a bigger crime: the complacency of the masses. You’ll be exhausted fighting for what’s right, what’s fair, what’s equitable. It will be thankless work a lot of the time, but you’ll do it because you have such defined standards. You’ll learn to build boundaries, to protect your energy, to identify the causes worth throwing your all at and, eventually you’ll be supported in learning how to slow down, how to say no, how to not stretch yourself so thin your transparency leaves you bare and vulnerable. A hard lesson that will need constant reaffirming, but such a vital one.
One day, you’ll wake up and be ready to trust in the process. To find peace in the now, not be chasing an undefined future perfect, not be ill at ease in your own skin, not be troubled by standing still and taking in the beauty of the now. Grounding your feet in the floor, stopping to take in the plants you’ve nurtured, the relationship you’ve grown in, the home you’ve cultivated, the friendships you’ve developed. You’ll start to see just how much time you’ve spent fretting over futures and possibilities and uncertainties you never had a hope in hell of controlling.
That’s it, really. Control over everything is a pipedream and despite the desperation clawing at you to be able to touch something tangible, something certain, something so real and unmovable and eternal, there’s just no way for you to find that outside yourself. You’re getting to grips with that realisation now, and it still makes you cry, howl at the unfairness and thrash against the suffocating limits of reality. But you’ll also realise just how futile that is, laugh through those tears and settle in to figure out what the real root of your discomfort is. You’ll see how tired you are, how hard you’ve been working to make yourself better, and how pointless that framing is. You’ll commit to stepping away from self-defeating narratives and driving compassion for yourself and the world. God knows the world can use more compassion.
You’ll even return to university, despite your tumultuous experience in undergrad. Maybe partly because of it. You can’t let anyone else have the last word, after all, and will stop at nothing to prove yourself capable. You’ll learn more during that PhD than you’ll learn in your previous 25 years because it’s not just about the thesis. It’s hardly about the thesis at all. It’s about personal growth and development, it’s about finding ways to forgive your past thoughts, feelings, and experiences, and set up the best chance at self-kindness for the future. You’ll ruminate on some painful topics, explore the murky waters of the human condition, and you’ll still come out of it hopeful. Because, as you’ll realise in your exploration of violence online, it’s all about vulnerability. And vulnerability is beautiful. Vulnerability is the space for creativity, for growth, for changing direction, for exploring and for shifting stagnant, broken systems into forces for real, tangible change. Not just in governmental infrastructure or on Twitter.com but in yourself, too.
It’s such a painful relearning, unlearning, learning process. It’s messy (which I suppose is lucky because you never do learn how to keep your bedroom floor tidy, nor do you get over your aversion to ironing). And in that mess is opportunity. You just need to remember that your life, your ideas, your path not looking like other people’s doesn’t mean it’s wrong or lesser or a bad fit. It fits because it’s yours. You will have so much going for you and you’ll not always see it, but luckily you have friends and a partner who will remind you whenever you need it. And you’ll keep writing. Horrible, angsty, teenager poetry that makes you cringe and keeps you satisfied in equal measure. You’ll expel the worst of your thoughts, the most painful of your feelings, in an anonymous journal and it’ll be so cathartic. You’ll keep using your words to map your journey because it’s the only way you know how to communicate. You’ll still fear being misunderstood, but the panic won’t clutch you in a vice grip the same. You’ll let go (some) of that belief that misperception is the worst you can suffer – you’ll recognise that being misunderstood, misinterpreted, misconstrued is part of the mess of communication. You’ll even revel in it and explore it in academic settings as well as personal writings. You’ll see it’s somewhat a universal experience to feel not listened to, not truly heard. And you’ll grow a chosen family of active listeners, of empathetic, charismatic, compassionate souls who hear you and engage with you in ways you could never have dreamed, matching your passion toe to toe and giving you space to monologue as you pick apart ideas and theories in real time, and you’ll feel so cherished and accomplished in their company because they want to share space and energy with you. You will nourish each other in ways you can’t begin to put into words, it’s visceral and ethereal and intangible. It’s magic.
Time is a funny old thing. It’s intimately wrapped up in every experience – the past, the present, the future. The immediate experience of a thing, the aftermath, the impacts we can’t possibly predict but will undoubtedly live through down the line. Patience wasn’t really ever your strong suit, but you’ll learn to slow (if not stop) and take great pleasure in the minutia, wonder at that truly magnificent things in your life – the truly magnificent people that make your life all the richer.
Basically, you’ll be alright kiddo. Have faith in the process if you can’t find faith in yourself. The faith in yourself will come with time, a good few crying jags and a lot of positive reinforcement from very special people. It takes a village to raise a baby, so it makes sense it takes a community to grow a well-rounded soul like you.
You’re golden, Jane. You’ll see it one day.
Love, Jane
Therapy homework (writing a letter to 17 year old me) has never been so hard, so necessary, so painful, so cathartic, so precise, so vague, so everything and more. The path to healing seems more recognisable now. She'd be proud of me, I think.
