love letters

Dear Me You,

You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to. People will still say it–“smile!” but trust me; you’ll learn very soon to smile when you want.

Grow out the relaxer, cut your hair. Trust me, you’ll be a new person. You will feel beautiful for the first time; I will not describe this, as you must feel it for yourself.

You’ll want to spell Isabelle without the “le” on the end. He will insist on the “le.”

You will never be perfect. This includes motherhood. So kiss Bailey and Avery and relax, you’re doing fine.

Take a deep breath. Go to New York. Stand beneath the arches, but don’t smile. The picture will be perfect.

Take the job. It will just be a job, but the money will be alright. It will devastate you in the end, but you will be better for it.

Write. Write often. It won’t always be great, but it will be cathartic.

You will feel most alive when you are in New York City. It is just as you imagined.

Look at George and Bailey and Avery. Watch them often. Take fewer photos. Remember what you didn’t capture.

That fluttering in your chest, the butterflies that you were afraid of—that is happiness. Look around and appreciate the perfection in the imperfections.

Trust me. It will be worth it, I promise.

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