Dear me, at 25

Dear me at 25,

I'm writing this on my 22nd birthday, sitting in my car outside the call center on my lunch break, eating crackers out of the sleeve. I have eleven dollars until Friday. I'm not telling you this to be sad. I'm telling you so you remember where you started.

Here are the things I hope for you.

I hope you finally called Grandma more. She asks about you every time, and I always say you're busy, and I'm always lying.

I hope you stopped saying sorry for taking up space. In meetings, in doorways, in your own apartment. You don't have to apologize for being in the room.

I hope you're still drawing. Even badly. Especially badly. The sketchbook is in the glove box right now and I haven't opened it in months, and I miss it the way you miss a friend you stopped calling.

If you're still at the call center, that's okay. Really. You're allowed to take longer than other people. You're not behind. There's no line.

But if you've left, if you're doing the thing we used to whisper about, then I want you to stop right now and feel it. We did that.

Love, you at 22

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