Slow Down
I've been thinking a lot lately about my younger self. Her youth. Her naiveté. Her mindless stumbling through chapters of life. Her stubbornness. Her excitement. Her intensity.
I'd have a lot to say to this younger woman, given the chance.
I'd tell her to slow down.
I'd tell her to take off all her clothes, stand in front of a full-length mirror, and bask in the beauty of her amazing, beautiful, perfect young body. I'd ask her to pay special attention to the gravity-defying nature of her thighs, buttocks, and breasts.
I'd tell her to anticipate a significant amount of failure. I'd make sure she knew, though, not to give up on the risks. Take them all, I'd tell her, the lesson is in the failure.
I'd ask that she please be gentle with herself. I'd hint to the massive heartache and disappointment that will inevitably find her no matter what. It comes in many forms, I'd share. Breath and lean into it.
I'd encourage her to think things through.
I'd encourage her to go on more long, quiet walks.
I would take her hand and ask her to walk next to me while I enjoy the very essence of her.
I'd pray with her, for her.
I'd ask that she pray for me, too.
I would tell her the best is yet to come.
I'd tell her to always, ALWAYS say yes when her babies ask her to play with them, hug them, lay with them just a few more minutes.
I'd demand her commitment to her health. I'd demand her commitment to her investments.
I'd ask her what she's most afraid of, and then I'd kiss her cheek.
