To My Future Self

When I was a little girl trying my hand at writing in a diary, I wrote a few of those “to my future self” letters. They were intended to be opened by a “successful”adult me, breezily answering everything in affirmative, happily meeting all of my girlish expectations.

As a teenager, my dreams grew and shrunk a bit – expanded by more knowledge of the possibilities and diminished a bit by my fears and perceived limitations. I wrote poem after poem and worked as hard as I could to get into a good college – but always tried to be “realistic.”

When I hit my early ’20s, a nearly paralyzing depression gripped my life. I looked at those letters with sadness and felt little hope that my life could be as I’d expected. I’d always dreamed of attending college and – now that I was finally there – it seemed that everyone was happy but me. I started to imagine the little girl I was once putting her dreams into a note to her future self and penned this:
Depression
It’s as if I’m haunted
by the little girl I once was.
She seems to whisper, “What have you done with me?
Who have I become?”
My strength, my personality,
all stem from surviving
pain, loss, fear.
But I’ve survived at what cost?

By 22 or so, I’d found my way out of the depths of depression and learned how to use what I call my “toolbox” to make sure I never returned there again. I wasn’t depressed, but fear, doubt, and insecurity still weighed me down. Here I was with very few close friends, nowhere near marriage, and not even truly considering submitting my writing for publication. If the local newspaper published my letters to the editor, I felt pride. I told myself it was enough. I continued to dwell on those notes to myself and felt like a disappointment.
At some point, I would pen several unfinished versions of this poem (please forgive this very rough draft):
The Haunting
She came to me suddenly one day.
I heard her first, then gradually I connected
a face to the voice.
A bright eyed little girl, innately curious,
mimicked my steps and hopped in my shadow.
I attempted to dodge her and
her image would slowly dissipate, but
her persistent question haunted my thoughts.
I could envision her subdued, disappointed voice asking
“Who are you and what have you done with me?”

At 24/25, I started to feel a glimmer of hope about life’s possibilities. I was doing well professionally and grew in confidence as I faced new challenges and opportunities in the workplace. My roommate quickly became my best friend – a bosom buddy if you will – and we spent our time laughing together. I felt more loved and accepted by a friend than I had in a long while. I felt my testimony growing and my love for my faith increasing, which made a tremendous difference in me. And I started dating Tim. I frightened myself because I knew I loved him long before it seemed possible and I discovered I liked myself best when I was with him. That bright eyed girl rarely crossed my mind.

On December 5, 2004, I was 25 years old and newly married. I wrote:
“Sometimes life is so good – so great, wonderful, joyful, amazing – you don’t take the time to write about it. I’m surprised I haven’t stopped to write about my wedding day, wedding night, honeymoon, new job, new place, new ward, new husband. But then again, I’m not. For once in my life, I’ve been too busy truly living to stop and write about it.”

I turned 31 just a couple weeks ago and that little girl came to mind again. I thought of her and found myself literally grinning. It suddenly came to me: This life, my life, is the life she dreamed of. Now. Not in the future. Now what I could be. But who I am. And it felt incredible.

I don’t spend much time writing poetry these days, but I do love writing on this blog. My husband encouraged me to apply for a part time job writing for a local paper about 6 months ago. I felt some of that old trepidation , but went ahead and applied. Now I write a regular column and human interest stories and I love it. (You can view my writing anytime by clicking on the Scrib link on the right hand side). The paper invited me to write a different kind of article recently, something more personal focused on my religion. I put my heart in it and the response was incredible. Now I am hoping to write more editorial and opinion pieces. The paper might be small, but I’m writing and I’m published. And I’m happy.

I’m a stay at home mom of two wonderful, crazy children. All my life (well, except for some rocky moments as I entered adulthood), I wanted to be a wife and mother. I don’t care if it’s not a modern thing. I adore my mother and wanted to be like her. This is the life I hoped for.

It’s not perfect and there’s still so much more I hope to accomplish. Thank goodness, right? I don’t think the little girl writing to her future self really wanted perfection, anyway. She just wanted to know she’d be  happy and hopeful. And I am.