Dust and cobwebs fly around me as I clear out my drawer. I notice a frayed envelope with my name on it. On the bottom of the envelope, the receiver’s name is present. Turns out, I had written a letter to myself. I open the envelope, preparing myself for the insufferable cringe and awkwardness I would feel. The letter was written on the 9th of September, 2015. I was 14 at the time, and it started off with a happy birthday message. The letter was addressed to my 21-year-old self and was bursting with exclamation marks, hearts, and smiley faces. The minute I read the letter; I was transported to the time I wrote it.
It was one day before my physics exam, and I prayed to all the gods in the world to cancel my exam the next day. I was vicious with my prayers, hoping for a piano to fall on the principal’s head, the world to get engulfed in a big ball of fire, and for me to suddenly lose all my memory and, thereby, not be able to recall my horrid chapters. Alas, that was not the case. The previous day, when my dad had gone to do some work and was not around to supervise me, I had written the letter. I couldn’t wait to grow old and live the “adult life”. That life seemed so glamorous and stunning and filled with fun and “adult stuff” (activities like drinking, smoking, and making out). However, what no one tells you about adulting is that in the initial act of it, no one has a clue about what they are doing.
Each failure hits like a ton of bricks, and you have no choice but to get up and dust yourself off.
On days when you are sick, you have to take care of yourself, your mom won’t come in with a hot cup of chai, your dad won’t be there to check your temperature and crack his lousy jokes, and your sister won’t be there to give you company as you watch a TV show you both used to once watch together.
So, why did this suddenly go from wholesome, admittedly a bit dark, to downright depressing? This is to the 14-year-old Sanjana, who believed that adulting is absolutely splendid. Sanjana, adulting is fun, and trust me, that little kid in you never dies. As a matter of fact, you find friends who won’t let that inner child in you die. Friends who buy you Lego, friends who make absurd noises at night and keep you up, friends who buy you bubbles and watch as the air around you is surrounded by little globules of rainbow.
So, Sanjana, as much as I know you detest writing that physics exam, believe me, it is all part of the process, and without that, you would not be in the position to write this letter to yourself. Trust me when I say you made it. You did end up doing your dream course, and you are on the right path!
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