If Your Future Self Knocked on Your Door

A reflection on what she might say — and what I wish I’d said sooner.

You know what it’s like, right? You’re sleeping soundly, having a great dream, or at least a decent dream, and then you wake up for no apparent reason and start thinking.

Thinking itself is fine; I’m generally in favor. But the kind that spins off into overdrive at 2am is not the kind I appreciate. Yet it happens nearly every night.

My brain, left unattended, will latch onto anything.

So, I was awake in the middle of the night and started thinking about how good I feel about my body now that I've lost some weight.

When I was young, I never appreciated my body. The fashion in the 60s & 70s was tent-pole thin. I was slender, but I had curves, so when I looked in the mirror all I saw was fat.

Menopause brought a severe change in my metabolism — I gained 60 pounds in a mere 2 years. It’s taken years to figure out how to lose again. And now I love my body! I love how it feels. I love to look at my reflection in the mirror. And I think back to when I was young, how I hated that perfect body. There is so much that young CJ needed to hear from me; so much I wish I could go back in time and tell her.

Then I thought about other things in life we wish we could tell our younger selves. 

I can see 30-year-old me so clearly — busy, determined, and already harder on herself than anyone else would ever dare to be. If I could sit with her for just a minute, long enough for a cup of coffee and a deep breath, here’s what I’d want her to hear.

I’d start with friendships. “These need care,” I’d tell her. “Keep the good ones; reach out. People don’t stay in your life by accident.”

Then I’d warn her about perfection. She was trying to be the best at everything — work, church, neighbors, motherhood — and still scolding herself because the house wasn’t spotless. But no one cared about spotless. They cared about how she made them feel.

I’d ask her to be kinder to herself, too. “If you wouldn’t say it to someone else, don’t say it to you.” She gave everyone grace except herself.

And I’d tell her that small joys matter more than she realizes: quiet mornings, good meals, peaceful rooms, people who love you. Those aren’t extras. Those are the life.

Finally: quit worrying about looking foolish. No one is paying that much attention. Everyone is far too busy worrying about themselves.

Then I wondered: if I live to 90, 95, maybe even 100, what will that me want to tell this me? I imagine her settling into a chair with a sigh — the kind that says she’s seen enough life to skip the formalities.

She doesn’t bother with small talk; age has edited out anything unnecessary.

“Listen,” she’d say, “you need something to look forward to. Always. A hobby, a project, a tiny adventure — I don’t care what it is. Just keep a spark in your pocket. It keeps you alive inside.”

She’d wave off the old ambitions with a flick of her hand. “Success and money don’t age well. They fade. What lasts is the people you love, the memories you bother to make, and the peace you build in your own mind. Don’t waste time polishing the wrong things.”

And then she’d lean a little closer. “Say what you feel. Don’t swallow your thoughts or your affection. Don’t hide parts of yourself to keep the peace. Speak now. You’ll regret the silences far more than the imperfections.”

That’s what I imagine she’d tell me.

So I’ll ask you the same thing — if you feel like sharing.

If your future self could come have a cup with you, what do you think they’d say?