Always Becoming

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about who I am, and the direction my life is headed (see: My Quarter-Life Crisis). In doing so, I’ve been reflecting on my younger self and what she would think of me today.

I went back to read a piece I wrote a few years ago, a Letter To My Younger Self. In the piece, there’s a picture of me as a kid. I was eight when that picture was taken – cute as a button, I know – the same age my little brother is now.

I wish I saw the world today, as a 25-year-old, in the same way my little brother does, and in the same way my 8-year-old self did.

I wonder how often my little brother thinks about his future. I can’t imagine he thinks about it much beyond when people ask him “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

He’s not worried about work, or his future, or planning five or ten years ahead; he’s focused on right now. He thinks about what’s going to make him happy, what’s fun, what’s cool. It’s not a luxury I have as an adult, to look at life that way.

What would 8-year-old Emi think of me now?

I can’t help but think that all the things I’m most worried about right now, my 8-year-old self would not care about in the slightest.

My 8-year-old self wouldn’t care about work emails, the trajectory of my career, or planning my month ahead on my calendar.

She would care if I’m fun, if I’m happy. She would wonder if I have good friends. (She would be thrilled, but not shocked, to know that Valeria is still my best friend.) She would care if I’ve achieved my dreams, and if I’m cool.

I think, truly, my 8-year-old self would think I’m so cool.

I’ve achieved so many of my dreams, and have so many more to achieve. I have beautiful friends who I get to have adventures with. I’ve met some of the most amazing people who I get to have in my life. I’ve lived in New York, I’ve traveled to multiple countries, I’ve gone to countless Heat games and Broadway shows and concerts and do so many things just because they make me happy.

There are a million things I wish I could tell my 8-year old self. I wish I could tell her to hug her grandmas one more time. To listen intently to every insane story her uncle tells so she can remember them when she misses him. I wish I could hold her and keep her far away from all the hurt and struggles she’ll face. I also wish I could do that for my 8-year-old brother now, but I know that’s unrealistic. All I can do is let him know that sometimes life is hard, and be there for him when it is, just as my older brothers have always been for me.

I wish I could tell younger Emi to just live her life. That things are never really that serious. To not worry so much and to cherish moments. I want to tell her that she’s going to be okay, more than okay. But most importantly, that she’s really f*cking cool.