What Would You Say If They Were Sitting Across From You?

Don’t picture yourself as a memory.

For a moment, imagine they’re actually here.

Sitting across from you.

Maybe they’re eight.

Maybe sixteen.

Maybe twenty-seven.

Maybe they’re the version of you from five years ago.

Whatever age came to mind first, don’t change it.

Just look at them.

They don’t know anything that happens next.

But you do.

Look at them before you tell them anything.

Notice their face.

The way they’re sitting.

What they’re wearing.

Maybe you remember the room they slept in or the music they listened to.

Maybe you can picture their hair.

Their favorite shoes.

The way they laughed before they learned to be self-conscious about it.

Maybe the details come easily.

Maybe they don’t.

That’s okay.

You don’t need a perfect memory.

Just stay with them for a minute.

Because before you tell them the story of your life, there’s something worth noticing:

They are you.

Not a rough draft of you.

Not an unfinished version waiting to become the person you are today.

Not someone whose only purpose was to make enough mistakes so you could eventually learn from them.

They were a whole person.

Living a life that felt just as immediate to them as yours does to you right now.

And they have absolutely no idea what you’re about to tell them.

Where would you begin?

Would you tell them the good things first?

The people they’re going to meet.

The places they’ll go.

The moments when life surprises them in ways they couldn’t possibly imagine yet.

Would you tell them about the times they’ll laugh until they can’t breathe?

The things they’ll accomplish that feel impossible from where they’re sitting?

Would you tell them who they’ll become?

Or would your mind go immediately to the harder parts?

The heartbreak.

The mistakes.

The losses.

The years that don’t go according to plan.

The moments they’ll wish they could undo.

There is so much you could tell them.

But imagine looking into their eyes before you begin.

Would that change the way you told it?

I think we would choose our words differently.

There are things we say to ourselves that we would have a hard time saying to that person sitting across from us.

You should have known better.

You wasted so much time.

Why did you let that happen?

How could you have been so stupid?

Maybe those sentences have become so familiar that we barely notice them anymore.

But now imagine saying them to the younger you.

Watch their face as they hear them.

Suddenly, You should have known better raises another question:

How?

How were they supposed to know?

Who had taught them?

What experience did they have?

What were they trying to protect?

What did they believe about themselves then?

What did they believe about the world?

What were they hoping would happen?

The answers don’t erase responsibility.

They give it context.

And context can change the entire tone of a story.

You might want to warn them.

This is the part that gets me.

Because if we really could sit across from our younger selves, I think many of us would immediately want to save them from something.

Don’t trust that person.

Leave sooner.

Take the opportunity.

Call them back.

Say no.

Say yes.

Don’t be so afraid.

Please believe in yourself.

We know exactly where we would interfere.

Because we know what those moments cost.

But your younger self doesn’t need to learn everything you know today.

Not for this exercise.

You aren’t being sent back to change the story.

You’re simply being invited to tell it.

And maybe that means resisting the urge to hand them a list of instructions.

Maybe, instead, you tell them:

There are going to be moments when you don’t know what to do.

And then you tell them something you know now that might matter more:

You make it through them.

Tell them about you.

This is where the conversation gets interesting.

Because eventually, you have to tell them who they become.

You.

Not the imaginary version of you who got every decision right.

Not the version you thought you would be by now.

The actual person sitting on the other side of this conversation.

What would you tell them about you?

What would surprise them?

What would make them laugh?

What would make them proud?

What would they recognize immediately?

What parts of them are still here?

Maybe you still love something they loved.

Maybe you still make the same face when you’re concentrating.

Maybe you still get nervous before doing something new.

Maybe some dream they barely dared to say out loud actually happened.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe another one took its place.

And maybe, looking at them, you realize something you don’t think about very often:

They didn’t disappear when you grew up.

You carried them here.

There is one thing I hope you would tell them.

I hope somewhere in the conversation, before they leave, you would tell them that they don’t have to get everything right.

They’re going to make choices with incomplete information.

They’re going to misunderstand people.

They’re going to misunderstand themselves.

They’ll probably stay too long somewhere and leave somewhere else too soon.

They’ll say something they wish they could take back.

They’ll have moments they’re proud of and others they won’t want to talk about for a long time.

They are going to be human.

And one day, they’ll become you.

The person who knows how the story went.

The person who finally has all that hindsight.

The person who gets to decide how the story is told now.

So before they go, maybe you tell them this:

I know things now that you don’t know yet.

But I’m trying not to use them against you.