Dear younger me,
I know where you are standing right now.
You’re standing on the driveway, at the very edge of something enormous. It doesn’t feel like possibility.
It feels like freefall. The relationship you’ve been in since you were 18 is now over. That safety net you’ve gotten so used to is now gone. The place you called home for two years is right behind you.
The future stretches ahead you like a question mark. You don’t know who you are yet – who you’ll become – and that scares you more than you will admit to anyone.
I want you to know this: that fear is not a warning. It’s the beginning of the rest of your life.
You don’t know what you want to do with your life, and that’s ok. I promise you that. You won’t figure things out by staying still, by playing it safe, by waiting until you feel ready. You will figure it out by moving, by saying yes to things that scare you, and most importantly, by following that faint pull of curiosity even when you don’t have the words to describe it.
Your passions and talents are already inside of you. They need room to grow and breathe – and that’s exactly what you’ll give them. Trust that. Trust yourself, even when you have no fucking idea what you’re doing.
Go and see the world. Please.
Don’t let anything hold you back. Not money, not fear, not the voice that asks will you be good enough?
You’ll stand in 25 countries. Twenty-five. You will see things that will rearrange things deep inside you. You will meet people who make you feel less alone in this huge universe. You will discover that the world is far bigger and kinder than Toowoomba.
Every time you buy the ticket, say yes to the trip, get on that plane not quite knowing what’s waiting for you on the other side – it’s the right choice. Every single time.
You will move to Brisbane, then Sydney, then Melbourne. Melbourne will surprise you the most: only a year ago, you were saying that you would never ever live in Melbourne. You will plant yourself in Melbourne – and twelve years on, you will still be rooted, not because you ran out of courage to leave, but because you finally found somewhere worth staying. Somewhere to call home with the warmth you’ve been unconsciously seeking.
You’ll study. Hard. For the next decade. You’ll attempt several degrees (hello, undiagnosed ADHD and a hefty HECS debt), yet you’ll have two degrees: a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of International and Community Development. At 20, you will not know these are the degrees waiting for you – and that’s fine. You don’t need to know yet. Just get yourself across those stumbling blocks to find what ignites your inner fire.
What matters is that you keep going, even when shit gets hard, and when you doubt yourself (you’ll do that a lot). And one day, you will be awarded a Churchill Fellowship. Let that land for a moment. A fucking Churchill Fellowship! That’s not a small feat. That’s the kind of recognition that says the world has noticed you, and what you care about matters.
I won’t bullshit you: there are hard things ahead.
A global financial crisis. A pandemic. You will navigate all kinds of crises the way you navigate everything: one day at a time, holding onto the people you love.
You’ve started re-connecting with your father’s side of the family, but it won’t go the way you imagined. It’ll be fucking complicated, as families are. But you’ll remain connected to some of your cousins from that side of your family. Reconnecting with your father will be difficult, and you’ve been waiting to connect with your other siblings – that isn’t going to happen, I’m sorry. They’ll go on with their lives and so will you.
You’ll lose your grandparents on your mum’s side. You’ll also lose your dad who accepted you as his own, when your own father didn’t. You’ll also let your father go because he hasn’t made any attempt to remain in your life. Grief will be real and heavy, and it’ll ask things of you.
There will be times when your mind works against you.
Anxiety is a bitch, and it will try to control your life. There will be bouts of burnout that will drag you down to the floor, making you question everything, and asking more of your body and mind than you can give.
You’ll learn that your brain is wired differently, and that it’s not a flaw to be fixed but a part of who you are. One that explains so much that has felt confusing or hard about the way you move through the world.
Asking for help will feel almost impossible and I won’t lie to you about that. It’ll go against every instinct you have, but here is the reassurance I want you to hold onto: you get there. You learn, slowly and imperfectly, that reaching out is not weakness. It is one of the bravest things a person can do. Every time you do, it carries you further than you could have gone alone. You don’t have to do everything alone.
You will also find yourself in ways you haven’t begun to imagine.
You will discover your sexuality – and you will also discover the truer, fuller version of yourself. That will take courage. It will take time. It will be one of the most important things that ever happens, and you will carry it with a pride that is entirely yours. Take time with it, and learn to embrace it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
You started your adulthood with trauma, and you will start healing from it – even if it starts a decade later. Things that happened to you that never were your fault. The weight you’ve been carrying – even when you didn’t have words for it. That work is slow, and it won’t be linear. There will be days when it feels too much. Do it anyway – it’s the most important work you will ever do.
Somewhere in all of this – studying, travelling, grief, healing, discovering – you will find your people. The ones who see you. The ones you text late at night. The ones who love you not in spite of who you are, but because of it. Hold onto those people – they love the shit out of you. That’s the best kind of love you’ll ever experience.
You will build a career you’re proud of. You’ll discover what you are passionate about, what you are genuinely good at, and you will chase it with everything you have.
Younger me, standing at the edge of Toowoomba, feeling scared, uncertain, yet braver than you know – I want you to know this:
Don’t let fear control your life.
Just fucking do it.
The version of you writing this letter – two decades on, settled in Melbourne, with a life so full it sometimes takes her breath away – wants to tell you that the fear was never the truth. That fear was just noise.
Everything you wanted, everything you needed, everything you couldn’t yet name: it’s all on the other side of the decisions you’re about to make.
Go and get it.
With all the love in the world,
You