What I Would Tell My Younger Self

Looking back at one childhood photograph and thinking about courage, grief, growing up, and the things I understand now that I could not possibly have known then.

When I look at that old photograph of me standing near the sandbox at Lake Washington, I see a little girl who had no idea how much life was waiting for her.

I see vulnerability, pride, uncertainty, determination, and probably a little stubbornness too. In many ways, I still recognize her.

There is a question people sometimes ask: If you could go back in time and meet your younger self, what would you say?

I have heard the question countless times, but I can never think about it casually. There is something about imagining myself standing in front of that little girl that puts a lump in my throat.

The Photograph That Started the Question

I originally wrote about this photograph in 2014 after my mom sent it to me. It was one of those faded snapshots that immediately transports you somewhere else.

I kept going back to it.

I would pause, study the picture, and look at myself as though I were trying to remember something I had forgotten.

The photograph was taken at Lake Washington near the sandbox. I was probably six or seven years old. I am standing there wearing the bikini of the moment, or at least what was supposed to be the bikini of the moment.

Because I also insisted on wearing a white T-shirt over it.

I remember that moment clearly.

It was the first time I remember becoming truly self-conscious about my body. I did not want to be seen the way I was. I cried. I negotiated. I reasoned my way into safety the best way a little girl knew how.

Wearing the shirt felt like a compromise.

Looking back now, I see something I could not see then.

That T-shirt was not really about clothing.

It was armor.

It gave me just enough coverage to soften whatever I believed was wrong. It let me participate while still protecting the parts of myself that felt exposed.

Years later, when I looked closely at the photograph again, I realized something that made me smile.

I was standing on the beach wearing the bikini anyway.

The shirt was still there, but so was I.

What Would I Say to That Little Girl?

Would I tell her not to sit at the window waiting for that familiar car to come around the corner?

Would I prepare her for disappointment?

Would I warn her about loss or loneliness? Would I explain that some people she loves will not always be able to give her what she needs?

Would I tell her that someday she will understand things she could not possibly understand as a child?

Part of me wants to protect her from everything.

But another part of me knows I would not want to hand a child the weight of a future she had not lived yet.

Maybe she did not need warnings.

Maybe she needed reassurance.

Because after all these years, I think I know exactly what I would tell her.

The Things We Carry Forward

I wish I could say we grow up and leave all of our childhood fears neatly behind us.

We do not.

Sometimes the little girl who wanted the extra layer of protection grows into the woman who still hesitates before taking a risk.

She wonders if she is ready.

She wonders whether people will approve.

She worries about being seen before she feels completely prepared.

The circumstances change, but some of the questions remain remarkably familiar.

Maybe that is why looking at old photographs can be so powerful. We think we are looking backward, but sometimes we are really looking at ourselves right now.

The little girl in that photograph had already figured out something I would spend years relearning.

She was nervous. She was angry. She was embarrassed. She wanted to negotiate her way out of the situation.

And then she went anyway.

She found a compromise. She put on the shirt. She stepped onto the beach. She kept moving.

I cannot help but admire that about her now.

Maybe This Is What Growing Older Gives Us

There is something beautiful about reaching a stage of life where you can finally look backward with more compassion than criticism.

We understand things differently.

We can see the choices we made without needing to defend every one of them. We can acknowledge the things that hurt without letting them define the rest of the story.

We can recognize that younger versions of ourselves were doing the best they could with the information, courage, and resources they had at the time.

And maybe most importantly, we get to decide what happens next.

That might be the message I want to give my younger self more than anything else.

Your beginning does not get to dictate your ending.

There will be hard chapters, beautiful chapters, confusing ones, unexpected ones, and chapters you wish you could rewrite.

But you will keep becoming.

You will learn to trust yourself more.

You will learn that confidence does not always arrive before the leap. Sometimes it shows up afterward.

You will discover that life rarely gives us perfect certainty before asking us to move forward.

And you will eventually understand that waiting until you feel completely ready can become its own kind of hiding.