In eighth grade, my language arts teacher offered us an extra credit assignment: write a letter to yourself that will be opened four years later upon graduating high school. Eager to allow my future self to vicariously relive the glory days of middle school, I set off writing what -- as I didn’t know at the time -- was going to be the most impactful twelve pages of my life.
Aside from relaying all the juicy gossip about who “like-liked” who, I delineated my picture-perfect life plan, equipped with ludicrous goals (especially financial): graduate at the top of my college class, attain a six-digit paycheck job as an architect, live in a penthouse apartment in New York City, and elope with a dreamy Australian model and ride off into the sunset, living happily ever after.
Those are all direct quotes from the step-by-step guide to life, a plan so reminiscent of a sappy romantic comedy movie I could get charged with plagiarism. If my English teacher this year posed an analogous assignment -- I’d pounce on the chance to earn extra credit because, frankly, eighth grade Language Arts Honors isn’t as strenuous as AP English Literature -- my current life plan would meet realistic standards. I hope I get my intended degree in Mechanical Engineering and not retrograde to the “I took Psychology in high school and it was cool so that’s why I’m here” major. I hope to get a job right out of college that pays well enough that I don’t have to move back in with my parents. Realistically, I won’t dream much further beyond that. The romantic comedy plot is so much more fun than that real world dream.
As I begin my journey down the road to the real world, I’m thankful to have opened this 12-page letter and strolled back down memory lane. Just four years ago, an eager young girl wrote a letter with dreams so big and exciting they were like a movie. The child within me planned her future with budding enthusiasm, disregarding all the restraints of reality I carry with me today. Within a short four years, I’ve grown up. It is inevitable. The woes of the real world have come crashing down hastily and without warning. Suddenly, I’m not the middle school valedictorian anymore, but rather the young woman being sent college rejection letters. But in times when life looks like a nightmare rather than a fantasy, it is critical to remember the beauty of being blissfully unaware of the ubiquity of real life.
I urge you to learn from me, the wise, young, brace-faced kid, and indulge in the bliss of ignorance. Indulge in a life without limits. Find the hopeful child inside yourself and bring them out to play. Allow yourself, even if just for a moment, to believe the only relevant news is who got their braces off and who like-likes who, and to be sanguine about your life and your future.
