I cried for a day when I was 17. Sitting on a swing at a playground late at night at the childhood I was leaving behind and the adulthood looming before me, I went home I wrote a note to my future self, telling him never to forget this feeling, never forget the childhood.
Well, I didn’t.
What would I tell my 17 year old self?
I’d tell him exactly what I told myself that day after I wiped away the tears and wrote that letter (which I opened last year at 42, the birthdate I set for it):
“Just roll with it like you always do. Play along and smile – they mean well – and listen of course, but don’t let them get in your head like this again.”
I roll with it. I play along and smile. I listen. And I don’t let them get into my head. I define me.