Overthinking Yesterday, Hoping for Tomorrow
To my 21 year old self,
Recently, I was sifting through old papers, getting ready to dump everything out, when I stumbled upon a letter, one I remember writing when I was seven. A ratty, slightly discolored paper folded in half, with the words “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU GRADUATE HIGH SCHOOL!” scribbled on the cover, and sealed with double-sided tape. Then, I pulled out another letter, one I remember writing when I was fourteen. This one was neater, with a detailed drawing of two cartoon jelly beans on the cover, and titled “To my future self”. As I held these relics of my past, I was struck by something unexpected; envy.
I didn’t open any of the letters. But I vividly remember the giddy sensation that overtook my body when I wrote them and every detail I included. When I was seven, I liked sushi, I liked my friends, and I loved my family. When I was fourteen, my favorite activity was going to Universal Studios, I signed off my letters with a stamp labeled “Gabby Yeung”, and I was excited to start high school. Back then, I didn’t overthink; I just enjoyed the moment. I am envious of that simple, unfiltered joy.
I’m going to college soon, I’m supposed to have my life together. But I don’t. I’m stuck in a loop of self-awareness and hyperfixation.
I envy those who carry themselves with effortless confidence. Every morning, I look at my reflection in the mirror, overanalyzing every pore on my face, agonizing over every disorganized hair on my eyebrow, or every lost eyelash, and wondering if anyone else notices them too. In the mornings, my friends walk in, complaining about their lack of sleep the night before. Yet, I don’t see dark, heavy circles under their eyes, or the dullness that lingers in mine as I wake up from a late night. It feels like they glide through life, untouched by these little imperfections. On the contrary, I remain wrapped in an exhausting cycle of self-consciousness.
I envy those who can detach from academic responsibilities. While others shrug off bad grades with a simple laugh, I fret and fuss over every careless mistake. I know, I’m supposed to be a second-semester senior with a bad case of senioritis, but still, I stay up late, rewriting notes, rereading textbooks, revising essays, unable to let go of the built up pressure of being perfect from the past four years.
Most of all, I envy other’s ability to get over things so quickly. Those who can shake off embarrassment, move on from rejection, and carry on as if nothing happened, while I replay every misstep in my head. I wish I could just silence the relentless voices in my head that tell me I should have done better.
❝As I write to you, my future self, I have one wish. I hope you will never be envious of me. ❞
I miss the days when everything felt simple. Where a bowl of udon could have made my day, where jokes with friends didn’t leave me second-guessing if there was a backhanded meaning, where my biggest worry was whether or not I would be able to go trick-or-treating this year. I miss the days when happiness wasn’t something to find, but something that just effortlessly happened, and stayed.
As I write to you, my future self, I have one wish. I hope you will never be envious of me.
I know that I have a tradition of writing a letter to myself every seven years, but I don’t want to wait. I want to write this now, hoping that one day, when I open it, I’ll look back at it with a sense of pitying understanding—maybe even relief knowing that I have grown—rather than seeing myself reflected in my teenage thoughts even as an adult.
As I write to you, my future self, I have one wish. I hope you will never be envious of me. The 17 year old girl who overthinks and carries the heavy weight of a thousand expectations she places on herself. I beg you to tell me that life gets better; that high school doesn’t matter, and that college is the place you find peace. I long to hear that you’ve found the love of your life, one that isn’t the teen boy you spent hours agonizing over, but a person that is genuine and kind.
I know this tradition of writing letters is usually lighthearted, but this one feels different. I can’t help but wonder if I will ever grow enough to look back and laugh at the things that used to keep me up at night. Maybe by the time you open this again, you’ll see someone who no longer carries the burden of perfection. I want to believe that you’ve found happiness—not the fleeting kind that comes and goes from academic achievements or social approval, but a steady, quiet joy that stays in the back of your mind even on the hard days. Until then, I’ll hold onto this hope to keep me moving forward.