Through the coffee shop window I see a little girl running in the street. Ignoring the calls of her parents but being sure to stop to admire the flowers along the sidewalk. Her curls bouncing freely in the wind and her pink sneakers tapping against the pavement floor. Everything around her must look so large as she looks up at the world.
She has her whole life ahead of her, I think to myself.
So many people to meet, decisions to make, and experiences to be had. She will choose what she wants to study in school and maybe change her mind a million times over. She will pick her favourite movie and favourite season and decide what she is passionate about. She will fall in love, and out of love. She will meet her best friend who will one day feel like a sister.
I look at her and I cannot help but think about the little girl that exists within me. The little girl who was always naughty and loud and refused to believe that there were monsters living in the basement. The little girl who wanted to be a ballerina, and loved her little pink purse that she carried wherever she went.
I often wish I could talk to the past versions of myself, wondering what they would have to say about the person who looks back at them in the mirror now.
I wonder if five year old me would be disappointed that I in fact am not a ballerina, and instead, I have the bangs I always wanted. I wonder if fourteen year old me would be proud of who I am and would be interested in what I am studying in school. I wonder if seventeen year old me would think that I am beautiful; if she would admire her twenty-one year old cheekbones and lips and (now) short hair.
I would tell them about what life has been like. I would share everything that I have accomplished and am proud of. I would tell them about my friendships: the ones that feel like sisterhood, the ones that continue to blossom and the ones of my past. I would share with them my aspirations and hopes for the future. I’d show them the colour swatches I desire for my future apartment walls. I would tell them that I finally fell in love.
I’d like to know if they think I am a good person.
I often wish someone could tell me if I am a good person. If I am making decisions that are moving my life in the right direction. I wish someone could tell me if there even is a right direction. I often wish that I could look into a crystal ball that shows me a trailer of what my life looks like at thirty to ease my anxieties about love, life and money. And yet, some days, I don’t want to know. Some days, I feel it would ruin the magic of uncertainty. That’s the beauty of life right? The uncertainty? I wish someone could tell me that it is okay to make mistakes and reassure me that things are not as life altering as they may seem, especially at twenty-one. Or that maybe they are. Or that maybe nothing really matters quite that much.
I look back out the window at this little girl and I want to tell her that she is perfect, and that she should always make time to smell the flowers she passes by. Forever.
And as I leave the coffee shop a few hours later, I too stop to smell the flowers that line the sidewalk.
That is what younger me would have done.