Dear Little Susy…
We’re 42 today. I know that sounds like such a huge number to you—ancient, even, and beyond your little mind’s grasp. But I promise, it’s not as scary as it seems. In fact, it was only when you turned 40 that you really began to feel at home in yourself, in this world.
I’ll get to that later…
Four decades. Four decades beyond your age in this photo. Four decades of birthday presents and cake and celebrating with loved ones—yes, I promise we still gather with those we cherish. But birthdays take on new meaning now—we don’t just celebrate you, but we celebrate life.
How we survived. How we thrived despite it all.
Oh, but there’s so much to tell you…
You’ll notice some familiar faces sitting around the table, or popping in to say hello. Some will be missing, too—empty chairs and absent voices that you never quite get used to. You’ll realize early on—in about ten years or so—how precious this tradition is, and it will be the only gift you’ll ever want from that moment forward…
Time.
Time with the people you love—whether they stay for a moment or forever. It’s the only thing that truly matters, but don’t worry. You catch on to that pretty quick.
Four decades, Susy. Four decades that feel like a full lifetime for all we’ve seen and done, and the hundreds of versions we’ve become.
Oh, you’re going to be so proud.
You know that dream you’ve held your whole life, since you first began to dream? No, not teaching sign language to gorillas or being a champion figure skater like Kristi Yamaguchi. Your 6th grade guidance counselor will pretty much quash that first one, and the second was never big enough to warrant you learning anything beyond single toe loops and salchows.
I’m talking about the dream embedded in your soul. The one you came here with. The one you began to nurture since you first learned to hold a pencil, since you crafted homemade books made out of cardboard and wallpaper backing in your Montessori classroom.
Yeah, that dream.
Guess what? You did it. You’re an author. Your words are on the page, curated into a story and bound in a book—seven books, actually. Wild, isn’t it? They’re out in the world. And part of you is out there with them…
Susy, there’s still so much more I have to tell you, so much more you won’t believe. Like how you follow in Grandma’s footsteps and buy your own house, and how it becomes your place of healing. You travel to foreign countries, discover that France feels like home and plant the seed of a new dream in the garden of your heart. You create businesses and build communities, and shape a life of your own design.
More importantly, you don’t give up.
Most importantly, you love and love and love.
You’ve also been through some sh—stuff. (Sorry. We use questionable language a lot now. Don’t let that surprise you.)
Life hasn’t always been gentle or kind or forgiving. But I promise, it gets better.
You get better.
Now, I want to give you some advice—from this 42 year old woman to you, my little heart:
You’re going to experience some things, not far from now, that will make you dim your light, retreat inside yourself. You’ll grow shy, insecure, and even a little afraid of the world. You are safe, dear Susy. You’re safe here, you’re safe to be you. Please don’t hide away that silly, goofy girl. Please don’t lock yourself away. But if you do, I promise, I’ll find you again. It might take me a while. Forty years, to be exact. But I’ll be there to remind you how loved you are, as you are.
Be kind to your parents during your prepubescent years. They’re people, too, navigating raising children and being someone’s son and daughter themselves at the same time and trying to figure out how their little girl all of a sudden became, well… you. You’ll have the gift of helping to raise a little girl someday. You’ll understand what it’s like to watch time pass too quickly. Give grace. And also? Forgive them for what they don’t know. They’re doing the best they can… and they’re pretty damn amazing at it.
Which leads me to this. Love them harder. Stay with them a little longer. Go to dinner with your grandparents. Watch that cartoon show with your brothers. Play another round of Canasta with your mom and dad. (Yes, we’ll eventually move beyond Go Fish.) You’ll find and cherish your independence in profound ways, but times will change, dynamics will shift, and life will lead you all in new directions—both together and apart. Don’t be so eager for what’s ahead; love what’s here and now.
There will be three moments that will irrevocably change your life: France when you’re sixteen, France when you’re 25, and France when you’re 40. At sixteen, you’ll discover yourself. At 25, you’ll lose yourself. At 40, you’ll come home to yourself again.
Don’t give up ice skating. Just don’t do it. You’ll dream about it for the rest of your life.
You’re psychic. Don’t freak out.
Your height will peak in elementary school. I’m so, so sorry.
You’ll meet a boy when you’re ten years old. He’ll give you a card for Valentine’s Day. Please accept it. Let him see you. He’s the love of your life.
Don’t bother with the GRE’s. Grad school isn’t for you. Neither is Boston, or Baltimore like you’ll one day plan with one of your best friends. You have so many more exciting things ahead—things that you’ll never believe you’re capable of.
Speaking of friends… Some friendships will fade to the foreground, and it will hurt like hell, and that’s OK. You’ll one day learn that time and distance don’t completely erase history, and you’ll love them anyway. But you’ll begin to meet your best friends as you grow up, and the circle will become smaller and bigger and smaller again, and you’ll learn there are oh, so many different definitions of soulmates, and so many ways to love.
And speaking of love… Adopt the dog. Take home the cat. Don’t ever look back.
Oh, Little One. If there’s one thing I could tell you about who you become, it’s this…
There’s so much life packed into your years ahead. There will be tears (sooooo many tears). There will be laughter (so much laughter!).
But most of all, there will be love.
Because I love you. And I will never, ever stop.
Hugging you and loving you,
Your Older Self, Susan
