One of my retreat participants invited me to contribute to her writing project, Dear 25-Year-Old Me. At first, I procrastinated, unsure where to begin. Then I remembered—25 was the year my mom died. What started as a simple reflection became something deeper, more cathartic than I expected. In the end, this letter felt like a gift to me. I’m sharing it here in case some part of it feels like a gift to you, too.
Dear 25-Year Old Melissa,
This will be the hardest year of your life. God, what an awful start to a letter—but it’s true.
It will be the last time you see your mom.
In your final visit, you will hold her, searching for familiarity in a body and spirit that feels so foreign. She’ll express longings to travel with you to India and to mend your relationship. You’ll assure her.
Deep down, you’ll feel the truth.
The dynamic between you will grow treacherous.
It’s okay to step back.
Save yourself.
Read those words again, Lissie Lou.
Sadly, her departure will come like a strike of lightning—shocking and devastating—leaving you with far more questions than answers. You will carry guilt despite the chorus of voices telling you to release it.
Let it be. Sit with it. In time, you will set it down.
You’ll wonder how life can continue, how you can finish school when the ground beneath you has disappeared.
Keep going. Your resilience will unfold.
Make peace with the unknown.
You will spend years untangling her life, trying to understand her pain. Many questions around her life and death will remain unanswered.
The more you confront your own truths, the more clearly you will see hers.
Look out for those selling certainty.
Understand that healing isn’t linear.
There are no panaceas, no shortcuts.
Life is a messy, unpredictable process—which also gives it texture and meaning.
Let yourself stumble into places you never thought you’d go. Try on different ways of showing up to the world—some will fit, some won’t.
You will struggle to commit in relationships. Some will make you want to pull your hair out.
Wait for a gentle soul who listens deeply, who feels like home.
Next year, you’ll have your first Black president.
Work hard to elect him, but don’t stop there. Never pin your hopes on one person.
Stay engaged.
He will accomplish great things. He will also disappoint you. You will feel disillusioned. But he was always just one man.
For a mature, nuanced view of the world and political systems, watch The Wire. Give it at least five episodes.
The political road ahead will be more harrowing than you can fathom now. The ugly underbelly of the country will rise louder and emboldened.
You will feel rage.
You will feel scared.
It will hurt like hell.
You will struggle hard with your family.
Don’t turn away.
Keep your commitment to justice, to humanity, to our planet.
Bear witness. Do what you can.
Center love and joy in your activism. Let go of the outcome.
Seek community.
Nudge your edges.
Show up to the event when hiding feels easier.
Protect the vulnerable.
Share what you have with strangers.
Hold healing spaces.
Diversity. Equity. Inclusion.
No matter what they say.
Be present with the land.
Listen to the trees.
Nurturing the plants and pollinators will nurture you. When you feel alone, there’s belonging and nurturance in the forest.
Make time for friends and family. Laugh with them. Tell them you love them—even the ones you don’t understand. See their strengths. Allow space for contradictions.
Love your dad. Have patience.
But trust yourself.
Your sensitivity is the thread of your mom’s heartstrings, still running through yours.
Carry it with care.
Tend to your nervous system.
Embrace your senses, your emotions, your deep thinking.
Nurture your body.
Get curious with your mind.
Be kind to yourself.
Love your brain. Teach others to love theirs.
With Love,
43-Year-Old Melissa
You may wish to read:
How I Learned to Stop Absorbing Other People’s Emotions
Navigating Collective Grief as Highly Sensitive People
A Guide to Balancing Social Action and Self-Care During the Holidays
Seeking Meaningful Travel Without the Overwhelm?
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