Dear 30-Year-Old Me, You Were So Damn Beautiful

A letter to my younger self with grace, laughter, and a bit of grief.

Dear 30-Year-Old Me,

I see you. I remember you. And oh, you were so damn beautiful.

Not just in the way your skin glowed without much effort, or how your jeans hugged you in all the right places. You were beautiful in your hope. In your ability to believe that life was still stretching out before you like an open road, full of detours, maybe, but also lined with promise. You were equal parts fierce and fragile, unsure but unstoppable.

I think about you often, especially now  standing in the mirror with softer skin and wiser eyes. I want to whisper to you the things I know now, the lessons you were too proud to ask for, the ones you had to learn through heartbreak, through love, through loss. Some of those lessons still sting. Some still bloom.

You thought you had to be everything to everyone. That to be worthy, you had to give it all. And girl, you did. You poured yourself into jobs, into people, into dreams. And when they broke, you quietly swept up the pieces and moved on. You were so good at surviving, you forgot sometimes that you were allowed to thrive.

You laughed a lot  loud, open laughter that filled rooms. Keep doing that. Even when the world tries to quiet you. Even when love betrays you. Even when your body begins to betray you too. That laughter, that fire  it’s your lifeline.

I want to grieve with you for the things you didn’t get. The apology that never came. The friendship that didn’t last. The love that wasn’t returned. And yes, even the version of motherhood you thought you’d have, the marriage you dreamed of, the future that turned out to be… different. Grieve it. Don’t numb it.

But oh, let’s laugh too. At the bangs you cut at midnight. At the time you thought wine and crackers counted as dinner. At the many times you thought, “This is the end,” only to wake up stronger than ever.

Dear 30-year-old me, I forgive you for the way you doubted yourself. For the love you accepted when you knew better. For staying too long. For leaving too soon. You were doing the best you could with what you had.

And guess what? You become more beautiful. Not in ways you expected. But in ways that last.

Love,

Your 50 self

The one who finally learned to love the girl she used to be 

wrinkles, wisdom, and all.