After posting the first letter, I mentioned wanting to write another letter to myself in the near future. Tonight, as I decided now would be the perfect time to do so, an idea came to mind - what if I wrote a letter to myself every year?
Not all of my ideas click right away, but this was one I could commit to immediately. This year, I thought of it a bit late, as I turned twenty-four three months ago. But after this one, I'd like to write a letter to myself around my birthday every year, addressed to the girl of the year before. Writing allows me to self-reflect, process and accept change, and get my thoughts onto paper, almost like cementing them and letting them dry. Anyone who knows me know that twenty-three, although filled with blessings, was a whirlwind for me. That being said, it's time to pour the concrete.
06.17.17
Dear Molly,
You just turned twenty-three, and your twenty-four-year-old self is proud of you for how well you brought it in. A year from now you'll look back and say, "that was a good one." You'll be glad you forced all of your friends to get insulting hats at Dick's Last Resort and squeezed them into a photo booth with them in Faneuil Hall. You'll laugh a lot together, and it will turn into a memory that you'll be happy you can hold onto. Keep celebrating life with the people you love the way you did that night.
It's promised that there is a time to laugh and a time to weep. In the same week of incomparable joy, your heart is going to shatter. You will be engulfed in so much pain that you'll question if it'll ever go away. You'll be sitting at a stranger's kitchen table (because you took up dog-sitting to help pay the bills), crying until your eyes run dry. You'll spend the night sitting on the floor, curled up in a thick, plaid blanket, underneath the curious nose of a Bernese Mountain dog. In the weight of your sorrow, that dog will place her paw on your shoulder from above you. You'll be reminded that God is able to comfort you in ways you didn't think He could during your lowest moments - and that time, He did it through a dog with the same name as the sister who never got to cry with you. Use this as evidence that when you're hurting, you are never hurting alone.
There is a time to mourn and a time to dance. Six days after you mourn, your younger sister will get married in the church you grew up in. After one last sleepover together in her room, you'll take a deep breath, leave your grief at home and stand next to her proudly as she walks down the aisle just as beautifully as you imagined. You'll lay out her train, hold her bouquet, write a speech that brings tears to the eyes relatives you've never seen cry, and cherish every moment of a night you and your sister will never forget. And did I mention how much you'll dance?
There is a time to plant and a time to uproot. Your sister will join your closest friends in moving away to other states, this time Hawaii. You'll say another bittersweet goodbye, feeling sad to see her go yet joyful to see her enter an exciting new phase of life. Once she is planted, you'll soon be uprooted. In your journey of figuring out what comes next, you'll decide to apply to a competitive graduate school two weeks before the application is due. To your surprise, you'll get in, and you'll move home.
There is a time to tear down and a time to build. Once you quit your job and move out of your first apartment to return to the town you grew up in, you'll realize how much building there is to do in yourself. You'll once again drive along the backroads and stone walls you fell in love with. You'll realized that not much has changed despite the fact that you have. You'll have to figure out how you fit back into this place, and it's going to be hard. Memories will flood you. Process them. When they knock on the door, invite them in. You are a worn, chipping house under renovation - let yourself be torn down and rebuilt over and over again.
There is a time to mourn and a time to dance. Three weeks after starting graduate school, you will come home to a note on the table saying your grandfather isn't doing well. Angels will lead him in before you wake up the next morning. You will mourn again, this time with your thirty-six family members who will all be under the same roof for the first time simultaneously in your lifetime. As you remember the dry, gentle soul your grandfather was, you'll be reminded of the love he left behind, and again that you will never hurt alone. Beauty comes from ashes. Your sister will fly home from Hawaii, and on her first night back, you will dance with her in your kitchen.
There is a time to love and a time to hate. Love will surround you through your parents, the old friends back home you missed so much, the new friends from school and church you desired, and the person who will show you that it is possible to fall in love again. Your heart will open itself up again, and you'll begin to let the walls around it be broken down. But you will cross paths with people that will stir an emotion in you closer to hate than you've ever felt. The walls will form thick again. You will be belittled, blindsided, and told you aren't good enough. You will be taken advantage of when your back is turned and your story will never be the same because of it. Don't hate the people who harmed you. Pray for them, find it in yourself to forgive them, and believe that you are more than who they made you to be. You are not a failure. You are not an object. You are who those you love say you are. You are wonderfully made with purpose. You are successful. You are brave. You're a songbird.
There is a time for war and a time for peace. You will wage war against your demons. You'll learn to recognize Satan by his alias, F41.0. Don't succumb to him. Put your feet on the ground every morning ready to conquer him. On the days you don't win the battle, you don't lose - you learn. You learn that there is only a white flag to wave when you make it yours to hold. Surrender each fight to the One who fights for you, and there you will find peace. Hold onto these moments, the ones you find your breath. You'll need to collect them and learn how you found them in order to find them again. Be patient with yourself - learning to let go isn't an overnight fix. I write you from the battlefield, but I promise there is beauty there.
It's in the quiet moments alone, and in Sunday mornings. It's in the nights you spend in with your parents. It's in hours-long phone calls with friends you miss, and the adventures with those around you. It's in the kitchen dances with your sister, in watching one of your best friends get married, in discovering sangria tastes really good with fireball in it. It's in a family of different accents and bacon cheeseburger pizza. It's in the moments you can manage to laugh at yourself. It's in the closure that comes with looking your past in the eye. It's in the boldness you find within you after a crowded square counts down from ten and the clock strikes midnight. It's in the eyes of teenagers feeling understood by you. These times of building and laughing and searching and peace are swords piercing into the times of tearing down and weeping and mourning and war. Use them as your weapons, and know that there is a time for everything.
And when all else fails, take the hands of those who reach for you. They might want to dance.
Ephesians 3
thanks, bailey.
while writing this, I listened to:
that hotel // donovan woods
words // gregory alan isakov
new start // jole
honest // joseph
the life i keep // whitley
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