A Note To My Younger Self

I met myself for coffee....

I’m not usually one to jump on trends, but this one got me. Writing my own version of the viral posts inspired by Jennae Cecelia from her latest Deep In My Feels about visiting with your younger self was unexpectedly emotional. I sobbed my way through it, and I think I know why.

Years ago, in therapy, I was asked to write a letter to my child self. I never imagined how transformative that little exercise would be—going back to her world, her worries, and her fears and telling her how things eventually worked out.

That letter felt like a physical release of so much I had been carrying. It gave me a sense of freedom I didn’t even know I needed. Maybe that’s why this trend hit home so hard for me.

If you’ve seen these posts and thought about trying it, I encourage you to give it a go. I think you will be surprised at how much you could benefit today from the advice you would give your 20 or 30-year-old self.

If you’re willing to share, I’d love to read even just one thing you’d tell your younger self. Drop it in the comments below. Your story might inspire someone else to do this healing work, too.

Letter To 20-Year-Old Self

I met my 20-year-old self for coffee.

She ordered iced tea, and so did I, but I asked for a pump of peach. She glanced at me, curious about the choice, and I smiled. It was the little things I had learned to savor over time—and that an extra pump of sweetness wouldn’t make or break my health.

She told me she had just come from a run. I knew it was her medicine, her way of pushing through the pain, believing it was the pain that would change her. I could see it in her eyes, the fierce determination mixed with uncertainty. I knew she wouldn’t believe me if I told her that her idea of "caring for her body" would actually push it to a breaking point. So instead, I told her I was proud of her—proud of her desire to live healthy, proud of her effort to grow.

She told me she was almost ready to graduate with a degree in nutrition. I heard the determination in her voice that she had ever hope of saving the world of health. I nodded, knowing the fire that burned within me. I told her she would still be working in the field, even more passionate than ever. But I also told her that her greatest lessons would come not from books but from losing her health. She would learn that the body isn’t a problem to be fixed but a body to be nourished. That health isn’t a destination, but a relationship and way of life.

She shared her five-year plans with me. They included opening a gym, getting married, traveling, and starting a nutrition practice. I couldn’t help but smile at her meticulous planning. I told her I’m not a big fan of five-year plans anymore, but she did a pretty good job mapping that one out. I also told her she left out a few surprises—like having two little girls and one on the way by the end of those five years.

Her jaw dropped. She looked stunned and a little terrified, blurting out that she wasn’t planning to have kids until she was 30. I laughed softly and reassured her that I knew. But God had other plans. I told her it would be hard, yes. She would feel scared and overwhelmed, but those girls would become the greatest blessings of her life. No amount of dreaming could have prepared her for how amazing they would be. I told her it would be one of the many lessons in trusting that God’s plans are always better than her own.

She asked me what I would regret. The question lingered in the air. I sipped my tea and told her I would regret chasing the future instead of living in the present. I would regret always wishing for the next season instead of embracing the current one. I told her I regretted the hours I spent worrying about what might be instead of living what was. I had learned that fear is a thief. But I never regretted taking chances, living the adventure, or making memories.

Then, with a quiet vulnerability, she asked me if I ever felt confident in my body. Did I ever arrive? Her words hit me, a question I had asked myself countless times. I told her that I had learned that arriving wasn’t the goal. Confidence doesn’t come from hitting a number on the scale or looking a certain way. It comes from accepting that you are more loved than you could ever imagine, regardless of how you look. I told her she would find the most confidence in the places she once assumed would bring her the least. That confidence is born in resilience—in living through both the hard and beautiful moments and seeing them as the scaffolding of a beautiful life.

She asked for advice on how to make the most of the years ahead. I told her to learn to let go. To soften, to relax, and to lean into God and surrender to His plans. I told her to take deep breaths, to laugh more, and to trust the process. Life is a wild ride where both good and hard coexist, often at the same time. Don’t try to control it so much that you miss living it. And through it all, remember there isn’t a single thing I would change about the journey.

As we sat there, I thought about how far I had come. The struggles, the triumphs, and the lessons I didn’t even know I needed. I thought about my family, my career, the incredible community I’ve built, and the lives I’ve been privileged to impact. I thought about the unexpected joys—like the way my girls’ laughter lights up a room or the peace that comes from a quiet moment of prayer.

Life had turned out so differently than I had planned but infinitely better than I could have imagined.

Before we parted ways, I leaned across the table and told her one last thing. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Keep dreaming, but hold those dreams loosely. Trust God with the details, and trust yourself to rise to the occasion. And when it feels overwhelming, remember you are already enough.

She smiled, a little unsure but hopeful. As I walked away, I felt a profound sense of gratitude—for her, for the journey, and for the life we’d built together.

Even now, as I reflect on the letter, I realize that meeting her wasn’t just about offering her advice—it was about reminding myself how far I’ve come.

Her fire, her dreams, and even her mistakes were the foundation of the woman I am today. And while I can’t go back and change anything, I’m grateful for every step of the journey. It was messy, imperfect, and beautiful, just like life is meant to be.

Truthfully, all I’m left with is a little whisper of a quiet prayer of thanks for the grace that carried me through, while knowing the best chapters are still yet to come.