Writing a Letter to My Younger Self…

Laura as a younger kid - Elementary, Middle School, High School in various hairstyles.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my younger self lately.

Maybe it’s the milestone birthday looming on the horizon. Maybe it’s the gentle ache of time or the shape of my life unfolding in ways I never could have predicted. Whatever the reason, I found myself sitting down recently to write a letter to my 16-year-old self. Not out of nostalgia, but out of gratitude—and maybe a little healing too.

There are wounds from childhood that still sting sometimes. Expectations I carried like armor. Dreams I clung to like lifelines. At 16, I believed I had to hold tight to every plan or it would all fall apart. I wish I could go back and whisper something true to her: some of those dreams won’t come true—and that’s not a failure. That’s grace unfolding.

I didn’t become a teacher, even though that was the plan. But I was shaped by the best teachers – people who showed me how to see others through love, dignity, and radical belonging. That lens has shaped everything: my parenting, my ministry, my friendships. It’s not the path I planned, but it’s more beautiful than I could have written on my own.

There’s a kind of joy that still tethers me to myself—joy I first felt as a teenager. I remember the way music stirred something in me, the way singing in harmony and on a stage made me feel both small and infinite. I remember how peaceful I felt moving with calm determination across a pool. It was never the cheer of the crowd. It was always the feeling I was inside a bubble in charge of my own speed. I feel that now in the very visible profession I have chosen. There are places where I can turn inward and feel that seperation from the world, even while on display. Those moments show up in my life to this day. Music. Swimming. A quiet breath in a noisy world. They remind me of who I am.

So, for the first 50 before 50, I wrote a letter to my younger self. I’ll post that letter next – after I sit with it a while. Writing this letter reminded me of something important: nothing is wasted. Not the skills. Not the detours. Not even the disappointments. I had to let go of needing every dream to work out exactly as I planned. Some shifted. Others disappeared. And in their place came a life rich with wonder, full of love, and marked by grace.

To my younger self: thank you. For being brave enough to dream, to love, to show up, even when it was hard. Thank you for your softness, your strength, your belief in goodness. You laid the foundation for a life I love.

I carry your courage with me every day.