Saturday Afternoon

If I could go back ten years, I wouldn’t arrive with dramatic music or grand warnings. I’d find myself in an ordinary moment, sitting on the edge of a bed, phone in hand, heart quietly convinced that life was already behind schedule.
I’d sit down beside her and let the silence stretch first. She wouldn’t trust me if I rushed. She’d need to see that I wasn’t there to scold or correct her, only to tell the truth she couldn’t hear yet.
“Here’s the advice,” I’d finally say. “Stop believing that clarity comes before action. It seldom does.”
Ten years ago, she was waiting to feel ready, waiting to be chosen, waiting for fear to disappear so she could move without shaking. She thought hesitation meant wisdom. She thought doubt was a signal to pause. What she didn’t know was how much life would pass while she stood still, mistaking comfort for safety.
I’d tell her this:
You don’t need permission. From anyone. Not even from the version of yourself you think you’re supposed to become.
I’d warn her gently about the danger of staying too long in places that slowly shrink the jobs that numb her, relationships that ask her to be smaller so things can stay peaceful. I’d tell her that loneliness doesn’t always come from being alone; sometimes it comes from betraying your own instincts one compromise at a time.
“You’re going to make mistakes,” I’d say. “Big ones. And they won’t ruin you. What hurts more are the chances you never take, the words you swallow, the doors you don’t knock on because you’re afraid of looking foolish.”
She’d probably ask if things work out. That’s always the question.
I wouldn’t lie. I’d tell her that life doesn’t become easier, but it becomes more honest the moment she starts choosing what feels true over what looks right. I’d tell her that she survives things she currently believes would break her. That she becomes braver not all at once, but in small, unglamorous moments when she chooses herself despite the fear.
Before I left, I’d give her one last piece of advice, the kind that only makes sense after years of learning it the hard way:
“You’re not behind. You’re just early in your becoming. Stop rushing yourself toward a finish line that doesn’t exist.”
Then I’d stand up and go, knowing she might not follow the advice right away. And that would be okay. Some wisdom can’t be absorbed all at once; it must be lived into, slowly, over ten imperfect, beautiful years.