Dear Younger Me: You Were Never Too Much
For Ashley.
Thank you for reminding me to have a conversation with a woman I hadn’t talked to in a very long time--myself.
I took my dogs for a walk this morning.
That’s it. That was the plan.
Walk the dogs, come home, and get to work.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing profound. Just me, two leashes, a little fresh air, and whatever thoughts were already running around in my head before my sneakers hit the trail.
You know how it goes.
You think you’re going for a walk.
Then life says, actually, we’re going to have a little meeting.
I ran into a young woman in my neighborhood, and what started as one of those casual conversations you have because dogs have absolutely no respect for personal space somehow became something deeper.
We talked about life. About doing things alone. About not waiting for everybody else to approve of you before you go live your life.
At one point, I told her she was an eagle. A unicorn.
Not because she was better than anybody else. Just because some people are built differently, and being different can get lonely when you keep looking around for people who see the world the way you do.
And yes, somewhere in there I told her to stop fucking around with pigeons and wondering why they don’t understand her wings.
But somewhere in the middle of giving her all this advice, I heard myself.
And I thought:
Oh my God.
I’m talking to me.
Not the me I am today.
The younger me.
The woman who didn’t know yet.
And suddenly I wished I could find her walking along some trail, stop her for a few minutes, look her straight in the face, and tell her everything it took me decades to learn: you were never too much
So that’s what I’m going to do.
Dear Younger Me,
First....Dear Younger Me: You Were Never too Much.
Second, sis, breathe.
I know you’re tired.
Not sleepy tired.
The kind of tired that comes from trying to be easy to love. The kind of tired when you feel you don't fit.
Trying not to ask for too much. Trying not to be too emotional. Trying to look like you have it all together while quietly wondering if everybody else got some instruction manual you missed.
They didn’t.
A lot of people are just better at pretending.
You are going to spend too many years thinking something is wrong with you because you feel things deeply. Because you notice things. Because you can walk into a room and feel the shift before anyone says a word.
That is not a flaw.
You just haven’t learned yet that you don’t have to apologize for being sensitive to the world around you.
You will call yourself too sensitive because other people are uncomfortable with your honesty.
You will make yourself smaller because it feels safer than being misunderstood.
You will laugh when something hurts because you don’t want to make the moment awkward.
Let me save you some time.
The moment is already awkward if you have to betray yourself to keep everybody else comfortable.
I know.
That one took us a while.
You do not have to earn your place in every room
You are going to work hard.
Too hard sometimes.
You will try to prove you belong by being useful. By being prepared. By being impressive. By making sure nobody can ever say you didn’t give enough.
And listen, I love your work ethic.
I love that you care.
I love that when you decide to do something, you don’t show up halfway.
But I need you to understand something sooner than I did:
You do not have to become exhausted to be valuable.
You do not have to over-explain yourself to be believed.
And you definitely do not have to keep auditioning for a life that is already yours.
There will be rooms where people don’t see you.
Some people won’t understand your humor. Some won’t know what to do with your strength and softness living in the same body. Some simply won’t recognize what you bring.
Leave those rooms when you can.
And when you can’t?
Stop handing them the pen.
They do not get to write the story of who you are.
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Your voice will shake before it gets strong
I wish I could tell you that one day you wake up and suddenly become bold.
That would be cute.
That is not how it happens.
Your voice will shake.
Your hands might sweat.
You might say the thing and then replay it in your head for the next 48 hours like you’re reviewing security footage.
You will wonder if you were too much. Too direct. Too honest.
Say it anyway.
Not recklessly. Not cruelly. But clearly.
There is a version of you waiting on the other side of every sentence you were afraid to say.
The first time you speak up, it may not come out pretty.
That’s okay.
Pretty is not the goal. True is.
You are allowed to take up space while you’re still learning how. You are allowed to change your mind out loud. You are allowed to disappoint people who benefited from you staying quiet.
That last one is spicy, I know.
Put it in your purse. You’ll need it later.
You are going to mistake approval for safety
You are going to do this more than once.
If people like you, you’ll think you’re okay.
If they praise you, you’ll think you did it right.
And this will show up in the men you choose too.
Some of them will tell you exactly what you want to hear.
You’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous. You’re the best thing that ever happened to them.
And because you are still learning the difference between being admired and being safe, you will sometimes believe the words before you study the behavior.
I wish I could teach you sooner that a compliment is not a character reference.
Being wanted is not the same as being cherished.
Being praised is not the same as being protected.
And somebody thinking you’re beautiful does not automatically mean they know how to love you well.
In fact, by the time you get to me, the word beautiful will have been thrown around so carelessly that sometimes you won’t even know what to do with it anymore.
That sounds sad, but it isn’t.
It just means you finally learned to listen for something deeper than flattery.
Watch how they treat you when they are disappointed. Watch how they speak to you when they are angry. Watch whether their actions make you feel safe when their words are no longer performing for you.
That will tell you more than “you’re gorgeous” ever could.
And when someone pulls away, you are going to immediately start looking for what you did wrong.
Sometimes, baby girl, you did nothing wrong.
Sometimes people pull away because your growth makes them uncomfortable.
Sometimes they liked you better when you were easier to predict.
Sometimes your doubt made them feel taller.
Let them be uncomfortable.
That is not your emergency.
Peace does not come from getting everyone to understand you.
Peace comes when you stop abandoning yourself every time someone doesn’t.
And this is the part I wish I could make you believe sooner:
You are not hard to love just because someone lacked the capacity to love you well.
Read that again.
Then read it one more time.
Because I know you.
Your body is not a project to finish
Please take the picture
Oh, sweetheart.
The years you are going to spend picking yourself apart.
The stomach.
The thighs.
The face.
The aging.
The pictures you won’t take because you think you need to lose ten pounds first.
Please take the picture.
Wear the dress.
Get in the water.
Dance even if something jiggles.
Especially if something jiggles.
One day you are going to look back at photos you hated and think, My God, I was beautiful.
Not because you were perfect.
Because you were alive.
Because you were laughing.
Because you were there.
Your body is going to carry you through heartbreak, childbirth, long workdays, hard conversations, fresh starts, and mornings when getting out of bed takes more courage than anybody knows.
Do not wait until you approve of every inch of yourself to live inside your own life.
That kind of waiting will steal whole seasons.
Self-acceptance after 50 is not a soft little phrase
Somewhere after 50, I finally understood what self-acceptance actually meant.
And let me tell you something, baby girl.
Self-acceptance after 50 is not a soft little phrase women say to make everybody else feel better about the fact that we’re getting older.
We are not saying it because we noticed that you noticed the gray hair, the softer body, the lines, the changes.
We see them too.
We just don’t give a fuck the way we used to.
And that is freedom.
It is waking up in a 50-something-year-old body and thinking, Oh my God, I actually like it here.
It is showing up however you show up and not needing everybody else to approve the package.
It does not mean you stop wanting things.
It does not mean you stop growing, dreaming, changing, or caring about how you look.
It means you finally stop treating yourself like a project that has to be completed before you’re allowed to enjoy your own life.
You stop begging the mirror to tell you that you’re acceptable.
You stop assuming every room is taking a vote on you.
You stop trying to make yourself easier for everybody else to digest.
And somewhere in all of that, you realize something that would have saved younger you a whole lot of trouble:
You were never supposed to spend your whole life trying to become acceptable to other people.
You were supposed to become yourself.
And when that finally happens?
It feels less like giving up and more like coming home.
The people meant for you will not require a performance
You will meet people who love the real you.
Not the polished you.
Not the agreeable you.
Not the version who says, "I'm fine," while internally holding a whole committee meeting.
The real you.
The one who laughs too loud sometimes.
The one who asks big questions.
The one who needs quiet.
The one who gets excited about a plan and then immediately needs to know the parking situation.
The one who is tender and stubborn and funny and occasionally dramatic, because life keeps giving you material.
And when you meet your people, it is going to feel different.
You won’t have to shrink your joy.
You won’t have to translate yourself into smaller words.
You won’t have to constantly wonder whether you said too much, needed too much, or showed too much of yourself.
You will not have to perform being lovable.
The right people will not require you to be easier, quieter, prettier, less complicated, or more convenient before they can see your heart.
And the ones who don’t see it?
Let them.
Let them misunderstand you.
Let them underestimate you.
Let them walk.
You have spent enough of your life trying to manage the weather in other people’s heads.
You do not live there.
I am proud of you
I’m proud of you.
Not just for the big things.
Not for the accomplishments anybody can point to or the things that look good on paper.
I’m proud of you because you kept going.
Not always quietly.
Sometimes through tears.
Sometimes angry.
Sometimes scared.
Sometimes convinced you had absolutely nothing left in you.
And somehow, you got up anyway.
You kept going.
I’m proud of you for the times you started over when nobody was watching.
For the apologies you gave when they were owed.
And Lord knows I’m proud of you for the ones you finally stopped giving when you had done nothing wrong.
That one took us a minute.
I’m proud of you for being kind when apparently being kind stopped being fashionable somewhere along the way.
I still don’t know when that shit happened.
But I’m glad it didn’t change you.
I’m proud of the way you loved.
You loved hard.
You loved strong.
You did not always love the right people, and you certainly did not always love in the right way.
Yes, Lord, we did some questionable shit.
You stayed too long sometimes.
You gave too much sometimes.
You loved people before you really knew how to love yourself.
And I’m proud of you just the same.
Because you were learning.
You were becoming.
You were gathering pieces.
And baby girl, I need you to know something.
You make it here.
Not home, exactly, because I don't think we're finished.
I hope I'm growing until my very last breath...
I hope there are still things left for me to learn when I am old and gray. Things I could have done differently. Things I still want to try. Parts of myself I haven’t even met yet.
I don’t believe turning 50 suddenly means we have arrived at some magical plateau where we have everything figured out.
God, how boring would that be?
What I can tell you is that you make it to a place where you are finally comfortable enough with yourself to sit down and write this letter.
Not unscarred.
We definitely picked up some dents along the way.
But still here.
Still curious.
Still loving.
Still becoming.
It is not a perfect life.
There is still grief.
There are still bills.
There is still disappointment.
And apparently at this age we have moved past the knees and gone directly to the hips.
Good Lord, girl. The hips. 😂
But something is different.
You have your own voice now.
Your own rhythm.
Your own knowing.
Your own laugh.
Your own peace.
And it is quieter than you expected.
Less dramatic.
More solid.
It looks like standing barefoot in your own kitchen, drinking coffee, surrounded by pugs and all the other damn animals everybody thinks you have too many of, and realizing—
you no longer hate the silence.
You no longer fear the possibility that you may be alone.
You no longer believe a husband has to appear for your life to feel complete.
You can sit in the life you have built and think:
I’m okay.
More than okay.
Because there are still places you haven’t been.
Things you haven’t tried.
People you haven’t met.
Strengths you haven’t discovered.
Versions of yourself waiting around corners you haven’t even turned yet.
And at 53 years old, that doesn’t make me feel behind.
It makes me excited.
I cannot wait to meet the next version of us.
Stay in the Room
If any part of this letter sounded like something younger you needed to hear too, I’d love to hear about it.
Tell me in the comments: What is one thing you wish you could go back and tell your younger self?
f this story spoke to you, like it or share it with another woman who might need the reminder.
📬 And if you enjoy honest conversations about life, getting older, figuring ourselves out, pets, home, family and everything in between, come stay in the room.
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