I hope you are not reading this letter with a coffee by your side — I am sincerely hoping that you have grown to kick this habit. The smoke you thought would be your last smoke, was your last smoke. Right?
And I sure as hell wish you are not hanging out with people who are debating the medical benefits of marijuana — well once in a while, maybe.
Are you at some place lovely? How does your apartment look now? You always wanted to have a cozy apartment with wooden flooring and a view of the sea. Did you settle for something a lot more realistic or are your painted toenails grazing the window that overlooks the sea in your fancy apartment?
I hope you have picked reasonable names for your dogs — do they fight with each other or have they grown to like and cherish company?
Is it true what they say about the thirties? Is it the new twenties? But does it still come with the anxiety?
I have so many questions that I want to ask you — How did that fancy degree you pursued an exorbitant price turn out to be? Have you found “the one”? Or perhaps you have grown to accept that there is no “one” .
As a 25-year-old who is writing this letter, I am hoping you are painting the nursery for the first child you want to bring home. I am not sure if you are birthing this child, or if you are adopting her or perhaps you are raising one with someone else — but at this point, 35 to me looks like the phase where you are welcoming a tiny human.
But I want to tell you that it is okay if you changed your mind — perhaps you decided you liked expensive lipsticks more than daycare. I won’t judge, I promise.
Are you married though? No, we will get to that later. Have you written your first book? I hope its not about love. I wish you decided to print it in good quality paper and have you cut your hair short enough to look like a “literary figure.”
What happened to all the Pinterest travel boards you created in your twenties? Have you started visiting these places — with a sister, a good friend, a partner, alone?
Did the anti-aging cream you were forced to buy pay off?
Did you get married? Once? The day I was writing this letter, you were doe-eyed and deeply in love with the idea of someone. You thought that anything and everything in life was worth sacrificing for love.
I sincerely hope that you either changed your mind or found someone worth the ideal. Or perhaps you realized that real-estate and volatile stocks are still a safer investment of time and money as opposed to true love.
Tell me you didn’t marry the first boy you slept with. Tell me you didn’t marry the first guy who told you that he would do anything for you. Tell me you didn’t marry a boy who raised his voice and sometimes, his hands at you.
Tell me you have not let anyone touch you with (or without) whiskey breath without your consent. Tell me you have learnt how to let go and walk away when it is necessary.
Do you work-out? Are you the ideal fit 30-something woman who can pull off yoga pants or is that just going to die an unfulfilled fantasy in my dreams?
What does work look like? Is it fulfilling — are you impacting and touching lives like you always wanted to or did you sell your soul for a lot of money? It is okay. Whatever you choose to do, remember that someday you want to leave this world a better place. But if you are selling your soul for very little money, I have no respect for you.
My heart is skipping a beat as I ask this — you still write, don’t you?
I hope you have finally learnt to put the past behind you — the men who abused you, controlled you and rendered you powerless are no match in the face of your strength and kindness. Maybe you have taken the pain and made it your superpower.
If you haven’t called family and friends in a long time, which I am pretty sure is exactly the kind of person you turned out to be, call them now.
Do you still read? I hope you still don’t have the ugly habit of sneaking in a Ruskin Bond and Enid Blyton when you have some serious reading to complete. Did you finish Crime and Punishment or are you still lying about having completed that book?
Promise me that if you choose to be a mother, you will be the kind that pushes your children to read Harry Potter and DO NOT, spoil it for them. If they do not like red velvet cheesecake, put them up for adoption. Please.
I am asking and telling and hoping not because I want you to fit into the mold I envision you in right now.
I don’t know what you are doing right now, who you are with or how life looks like — But I hope you are still the girl with hopes and dreams, a little sparkle in her eyes, undeterred faith in the inherent goodness of life
And if you are, pick up a pen and write another letter to yourself.
Your 25-Year Old Self