Dear Me

Dear 4-Year-Old Me, they’re not going to name your new little sister after you, sorry. Even if you argued your heart out and labeled all the books as property of Mikli and Mikli. 

Dear 5-Year-Old Me, I still remember when you were standing at the kitchen, looking out at the garage, and thinking about how this was your last day of being five. There was a strawberry sticker somewhere there. I remember the day because I remember the thought. Don’t be sad.

Dear 7-Year-Old Me, remember when you thought, at your sister’s birthday, that she was turning 3, which means she’s about to turn 4, which means she’s going to turn 5, which means she’s really actually almost 6, and wow that’s so fast? She’s 20 now. Yeah. It was fast.

Dear 9-Year-Old Me, the thought of strangers demolishing my bedroom walls would make me angry too. The house turns out nice, though. You’ll like it after dad stops turning it into a museum for guests to tour.

Dear 10-Year-Old Me, you’re going to get the baby brother you’ve always wanted! Even if your first guess with mom’s “guess what” was that they were getting you a horse.

Dear 11-Year-Old Me, you loved that dog, and years later you will learn that he didn’t “just collapse” after a bath; they bathed him in gasoline. You’re sad now, but you will be straight uppissed years later. And even more pissed that whoever it was that did that isn’t here anymore, so there’s no one to get pissed at.

Dear 12-Year-Old Me, you’re going to end up loving your hair. Crazy, I know. It sucks to have to wrestle it every morning, wetting it, making it worse, and yet it always went one way and just wouldn’t stay straight ( — something you’ll learn more when you get older just kidding). It turns out all you had to do was stop fighting it. Promise. 24-year-old you is still trying to figure out how to do that with the rest of her body. When you allow your hair to be what it is, it’s actually pretty bangin’. (Most days. When it’s not Sisa.)

Dear 13-Year-Old Me, in ten years you will finally get your cat! (In twelve years, there'll be five of them!!!)

Dear 14-Year-Old Me, you know how you felt when you interviewed the 15-year-old taking his PhD? And you were a 14-year-old who’s… not? That’s kind of the rest of your life now. You’re not going to stop freaking out over how amazing other people are (instead of you).

Dear 15-Year-Old Me, you won’t believe me, and right now it feels like it’s not, but I am telling you, you are at Peak Body. It is actually very beautiful, and you don’t have to hide behind oversized neon green jackets and baggy shirts and elephant pants. You know how it’s always, ugh I looked so good then? I’m telling you you look good now.

Dear 16-Year-Old Me, don’t give up your crush for lent. Weirdo.

Dear 17-Year-Old Me, you end up in UP. (Congrats!) (Brush up on your Filipino.) (And don’t stand up for recit.)

Dear 18-Year-Old Me, guess how many of the people you invited to your 18th birthday you still see today. Spoiler: you’re un/surprisingly okay.

Dear 19-Year-Old Me, do you know how amazing and wonderful that missed period is going to grow up to be? He’s smarter than you now and just as hard headed, by the way, so watch out. 

Dear 20-Year-Old Me, the most effort is put into making things look effortless, even if it does mean waiting until everyone’s asleep and the baby is fed to cry alone in the bathroom. Also, props on the body (woohoo breastfeeding) and props to feeling like your most beautiful self, because you really were. Maybe it’s the new mom glow, maybe it’s the sweat. I’m glad you owned that body; 24-year-old you is still trying.

Dear 21-Year-Old Me, you’re going to start getting called fat again, steadily and consistently. People can be cruel, and it’s worse when they don’t realize it, laugh, and call you sensitive. It shouldn’t matter to you — you’re so smart! you’re doing so well! even if you don’t feel you are! you still haven’t felt you are! yadda yadda yadda! — but it does. It’s gonna get suckier. I’m sorry.

Dear 22-Year-Old Me, law school was scary shit, and now you’re scary shit. Congrats on standing your ground, in and out of law school. (Also, don’t write your digests as you read, you won’t understand anything.)

Dear 23-Year-Old Me, it’s going to be okay.

Dear 24-Year-Old Me, I hope.

I wrote this July 4, 2015 when I was 24. I was thinking of updating this yearly, but this is also kind of a nice snapshot from where I saw things from then. I've learned a lot this past year (one year pa lang since I've written this?)  — and much of it from my 5-year-old! I share these little tidbits from my little tidbit here!

and K & I will see you in your inbox on Sundays!