November 10, 2018

Childlike: Letter to My Eight-Year Old Self


Dearest Little One,

I know the world seems like its over right now. And you feel like life doesn’t make sense anymore. But I can assure you, its only just beginning.

I know she was your best friend and she loved you so very much. Don’t ever forget that. There’s gonna be a lot of situations where you start to question whether she did or not or if anybody does for that matter. But I need you to know that she did. And Daddy does too. But just like you, he’s sad. Everyone is sad about Mommy. Everyone is confused. It’ll all make sense later though.

You are seriously one of God’s coolest creations. Don’t let anybody tell you any different. Don’t let anyone make you feel weird for liking Elvis Presley or reading Charlotte Bronte. Eventually, you’ll grow to really love pop Christian music (umm, like the Jesus version of New Kids on the Block. Does that make sense?) and Ella Fitzgerald. Basically, you’ll be limitless. You won’t fit into anyone’s boxes. And that’s ok.

Curse words are cool, just don’t use them with Dad or Momo or any other grown up. God knows your heart, and that’s all that matters. Speaking of God, did I mention how much he loves you? Like, he seriously does. Even when you mess up (and trust me, YOU will), he’s still there. Speaking of messing up, that kid you’ll meet in Mrs. Ortego’s class will indeed be a bratty kid. But you can’t throw desks at people who say things to you that piss you off. Don’t worry. Miss Blueford won’t tell Daddy.

And kid, keep reading those encyclopedias! And plead with Dad not to cancel your Highlights subscriptions. Keep pretending that those Saturday morning bike rides through the woods in Mauriceville are a safari through the African wilderness. And I know you love going by yourself to the creek to read, just make sure you at least tell Tina where you’re going. Keep expanding your imagination. You’ll understand why later. Mrs. Bynum and Mr. Richey will be your earth angels sent to you by God to keep your imagination going. Keep writing; you’ll do well in their English classes. In fact, one of your essays will land in the newspaper. Unfortunately, math will always suck. But that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. Stop calling yourself that. And I know you’re used to being a straight A student, but B’s aren’t the end of the world. And when you get to college (yes, you will go to college; won’t be Harvard or Spelman, though), you’ll grow to appreciate C’s.

Your teeth are fine. Your face is gorgeous. The yellow Power Ranger is indeed cooler than the pink Ranger, but pink Starbursts are better than the yellow ones. Just trust me on this. Oh, and boys can be shitty and mean. They don’t define you, though. That’s your job. Everything about you is beautiful. Even the many tears you will shed.

There is truly no one else like you. Be proud of that. Because I’m proud of you.





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