Dear 24-Year-Old Susie,
It’s 3:47 AM and I’m writing this to you from the future – your future, actually. I’m 61 now, sitting in the kitchen you don’t have yet, in a house you can’t imagine affording, married to a man you haven’t met, with kids you’re terrified you’ll never have.
I know you’re probably reading this in that crappy studio apartment with the radiator that sounds like it’s dying, eating cereal for dinner again, wondering if you’ll ever figure out this whole “adult” thing. Spoiler alert: You will. Sort of. The radiator in our current house also makes weird noises, but now we can afford to fix it. We just don’t because it’s “character.”
I need to tell you some things. Not to change anything – every mistake you’re about to make leads to this kitchen at 3:47 AM – but because you deserve to know that it all works out. Even the parts that really, really don’t.
About Your Body
Stop hating it. I’m serious. That body you’re currently criticizing in every mirror? It’s going to carry you through two pregnancies, survive a car accident, recover from surgery, and somehow keep going through menopause (which is exactly as fun as it sounds – imagine all your worst PMS days having a party).
Those thighs you hate? They’re going to walk you down the aisle twice (yeah, the first marriage doesn’t work out, but you needed that lesson). They’re going to chase toddlers, climb mountains, and dance at your sons’ weddings.
That stomach you’re always sucking in? It’s going to grow two humans. Two! And then it’s going to be soft and stretched and beautiful in a way you can’t understand yet. You’ll miss how it looks now, but you’ll love what it’s done more.
Start taking care of your body now. Not to make it smaller, but to make it stronger. All those nutrition myths you believe? Most of them are BS. Eat real food. Move because it feels good. And for the love of God, wear sunscreen. Trust me on the sunscreen.
About Love
That guy you’re crying over right now? The one who just told you he needs to “find himself”? He’s doing you a favor. He finds himself alright – in Patricia from accounting’s bed. You’ll laugh about this in about six months. Patricia ends up with a man who needs to find himself every few years. You end up with Curtis.
Curtis is nothing like the men you think you want. He’s not mysterious or complicated or artistic. He’s steady and funny and makes terrible dad jokes. He brings you coffee in bed every morning for 25 years. He holds your hair when you’re sick. He thinks you’re beautiful at 61 with reading glasses and hot flashes.
You’re going to kiss a lot of frogs. Some of them will seem like princes for a while. One of them you’ll even marry. That ends, and it’s going to hurt like hell, but it teaches you what you actually need versus what you think you want.
Here’s what I wish I’d known: Love isn’t supposed to be hard. It’s not supposed to hurt. It’s not supposed to make you feel like you’re not enough. Real love, the Curtis kind, makes you feel like you’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.
About Your Career
You’re currently making $18,000 a year and eating ramen five nights a week. You’re going to be a CFO. Yes, you, the girl who had to take statistics twice. You’re going to manage millions of dollars and be really, really good at it.
But first, you’re going to fail. A lot. You’re going to get fired from a job (not your fault, the company goes under). You’re going to quit a job in spectacular fashion (totally your fault, but so worth it). You’re going to cry in countless bathroom stalls.
Here’s what matters: Every crappy job teaches you something. That boss who makes you cry? She teaches you how not to manage people. That company that doesn’t pay you enough? It teaches you to value yourself. Those money beliefs holding you back? You’re going to change them all.
Also, start investing now. I don’t care if it’s $20 a month. Just start. Compound interest is magic, and future you would really appreciate it if past you had figured this out sooner.
About Your Parents
Call Mom more. I know she drives you crazy with her questions and her worries and her opinions about your hair. But she’s doing her best with what she knows. She loves you in the only way she knows how.
Dad’s going to die when he’s 92. That seems impossibly far away to you now, but it’s going to feel like tomorrow when it happens. Every time he wants to tell you a story you’ve heard a hundred times, listen. Write them down. You’ll want them later.
They’re not perfect. They mess up. They say the wrong things. They don’t understand your choices. But they love you fiercely, and that love is the foundation of everything good you become.
About Your Mistakes
You’re about to make some spectacular ones. You’re going to date the wrong men, take the wrong jobs, trust the wrong people. You’re going to drunk-dial your ex (multiple exes, actually). You’re going to get that perm in 1987 (what were you thinking?). You’re going to invest in a timeshare (don’t).
But here’s the secret: Every mistake leads somewhere necessary. That wrong job leads to the right one. That wrong man teaches you what you need. That perm… okay, the perm was just a mistake, but it makes for great stories at parties.
Stop being so afraid of messing up. The confidence you’re looking for doesn’t come from never failing. It comes from failing and surviving.
About Your Dreams
Some of them are going to come true in ways you can’t imagine. You’re going to travel to places you can’t pronounce. You’re going to own a house with a garden. You’re going to have those kids you’re scared you’ll never have.
Some dreams are going to change. That novel you want to write? It becomes a website called Enlightenzz where you help women navigate life after 50. That plan to live in New York? You end up in the suburbs and love it.
Some dreams are going to die, and that’s okay. Let them. New dreams take their place. At 61, I’m still dreaming new dreams. I just started making art at 61. I’m terrible at it. It’s wonderful.
About Your Friends
The friends you have now? Some of them are still here. Sarah, who’s currently sleeping on your couch because she’s between apartments again? She’s going to be at every important moment of your life. She’s going to hold your hand through divorce, death, and that unfortunate haircut in 2003.
Some friends are going to leave. Not dramatically, just… slowly. Life happens. People change. It’s not personal. You’re going to make new friends at 30, 40, 50. Some of your best friends haven’t even met you yet.
About Fear
You’re afraid of so many things right now. Failure. Success. Being alone. Being with the wrong person. Not having enough money. Having too much and losing it. Being like Mom. Not being like Mom.
Here’s what happens: Most of what you’re afraid of never happens. The stuff that does happen? You handle it. You’re so much stronger than you know. You survive things that would terrify 24-year-old you.
Curtis almost dies. Your kids struggle. You lose jobs, friends, parents. Your body changes in ways that shock you. You learn to visualize your way through the worst moments. And you’re still here, still laughing, still believing tomorrow will be better.
About Time
Stop rushing. I know you think 24 is old. I know you think you’re behind. Everyone’s getting married, having babies, buying houses, and you’re still trying to figure out how to do laundry without turning everything pink.
You have time. So much time. You don’t meet Curtis until you’re 35. You don’t have kids until your late 30s. You don’t figure out your career until your 40s. You don’t start feeling comfortable in your skin until your 50s.
Life isn’t a race. There’s no prize for finishing first. Take your time. Make mistakes. Change direction. Start over. You’re going to live to at least 61 (and hopefully much longer), so stop acting like everything has to happen by 30.
What I Know Now
If I could give you just one piece of advice, it would be this: Trust yourself. That voice in your head that says “this doesn’t feel right”? Listen to it. That gut feeling that says “take the chance”? Follow it.
You’re going to spend so much time doubting yourself, looking for external validation, waiting for permission. You already know what you need to know. You already are who you need to be.
Oh, and practical stuff:
- Start stretching now. Your back will thank you
- That credit card debt? Pay it off before it multiplies
- When Curtis asks you out (you’ll know him when you meet him), say yes immediately
- Don’t get bangs. Ever. You don’t have the face for bangs
- When Google goes public, buy stock. Trust me
- Hug Dad more. Hug everyone more
- That thing you’re embarrassed about? Everyone’s too worried about their own stuff to notice
The Truth
Here’s what I really want you to know: It’s all going to be okay. Better than okay. It’s going to be messy and complicated and sometimes painful, but it’s going to be beautiful.
You’re going to build a life you can’t even imagine right now. You’re going to become someone you’d admire. You’re going to love and be loved in ways that would make your current cynical heart roll its eyes.
So stop worrying so much. Eat the cake. Take the trip. Kiss the boy (not that one, the other one). Dance badly. Sing loudly. Make mistakes. Make memories. Make a life.
And when you’re 61, sitting in your kitchen at 3:47 AM, writing to your younger self, you’re going to wish you could tell her one more thing: Thank you. Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for keeping going. Thank you for becoming me.
All my love (and invest in Apple stock),
61-Year-Old You
P.S. – That weird rash you’re going to get in 1992? It’s just stress. Stop Googling diseases (well, you can’t Google yet, but when you can, don’t). Also, when Mom suggests you try online dating in 2001, don’t laugh. The internet is going to be bigger than you think. Much, much bigger.
P.P.S. – Read The Year of Yes when it comes out. Actually, say yes more in general. The best stories come from yes.
