Open letter to myself

This is the first time in a while that we stopped at Starbucks to work.

Then, it was homework.

Now, it’s work.

I’m sipping on an unnecessarily convoluted named Starbucks drink, while I sit near a poorly sealed window, people watching, and writing without a care in the world.

The thoughts that pop into my head, as I watch every word magically form on my laptop screen, bring a smile to my face.

I remember sitting in the same Starbucks six years ago with my loving fiancé while we were students at Rowan University.

It’s all a blur now, but I see my timid, younger self sitting in the seat across from me.

I look frantic. Pale. Confused

I think my hair was longer, or shorter. I can’t remember.

I wish I could tell that twenty-something year old college girl, who is closer to the last of her teenage years than the legal drinking age, that everything is going to be OK.

I want to tell her not to worry about that paper she’s writing, or that her life after college will be unexpectedly wonderful.

I want to tell her to make up her mind about her career. And to grow up, but who needs to hear that when you’re in college.

I want to tell her she’s beautiful, smart, funny, and a talented writer.

Then I blink. Look up again and he’s sitting there carefully sketching what he calls a “fuzz” on my red, empty Starbucks cup.

The one person who told me all those things that I never believed – except for the “grow up part,” which I think is the one thing he probably needed to tell me.

He describes me in the same way, using words I could never tell myself. For the past seven years, when he tells me I believe it.

Next time I see my younger self sitting across from me at the same crowded Starbucks I’m going to: 1) ask what’s in my Chia Tea; and 2) tell myself to listen to the one person who sees everything that I can’t.