30 before 30 :: the letter

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Dear 20-Year-Old Kelsey:

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Let’s just get this part out of the way: here’s what’s not going to happen in the next ten years.

You’re not going to get married. You’ll believe, deep in your bones, that you’ll marry your college boyfriend. You won’t. That breakup will be painful but will be the first time in this decade that you truly listen to what you want and do something about it. You’ll believe, even deeper in your bones, that you’ll marry a man who made you believe in love at first sight. You won’t. You’ll be buried by the heartache for a while, but will eventually see — and believe in — a world beyond it. 

You’ll be glad you did not rush to fit into a timeline you thought you should follow. You’ll be grateful you did not sacrifice parts of who you are for someone else. These will be the first moments of listening and trusting your gut. There will be more.

You’re not going to have a relationship with your dad. On every birthday, you’ll hold out hope that you’ll hear from him. You won’t. You’ll talk twice in these ten years: before your college graduation, where he’ll promise to take you out for a drink since he won’t attend, and at your grandfather’s funeral, where he’ll finally buy you that drink. His absence will shape you — you’ll talk about it to your mom, your inner circle, your therapist. But it will not define you.

You’ll get to a place where you feel the grief less, where you can release the anger, where you can move toward acceptance of what is. You won’t let go, but you’ll hold it lightly. Be patient; it’s coming.

You’re not going to have it all figured out. You really won’t have anything figured out at any point, really, even when you’re certain you do. You believe that there is a linear path right now — this guides you in almost everything you do. If you do this, then this, then this, then you’ll be there. But then you’ll change your major a few more times, you’ll have your world flipped by travel abroad, you’ll change careers. Uncertainty will always scare you, but it will be less and less as you move through each year. You’ll learn that there’s not really a “figured out” destination that you (or anyone else) arrives at.

None of that will happen for you this decade. But here’s what will.

You will see beautiful places. Rwanda and India and England, the skyline of Chicago and the mountains in Colorado and the beautiful coast in Cannon Beach. You’ll reckon with the privilege you have to get an education abroad and travel for fun and have paid time off. You’ll reflect on what it means to feel at home, what it means to call a place home. You will find your people in all of these places, and find new parts of yourself, too. 

You will date. Or, at least, you’ll go on dates. A man you’ve met once will surprise you at the airport with a cup of coffee and flowers. You’ll donate to a canvasser who stops by your door, and let him take you out for drinks. You’ll meet a man on a dance floor at your favorite bar and stay in touch for seven years. You’ll learn about yourself and more about what you want from every date, every kiss, every human.

You will have life-changing friendships. Life-saving ones. Your dearest friends at 20 will still be yours at 29, and what a miracle that will be — to have a decade of history together. You’ll build new connections along the way, write letters and FaceTime and spend hours over coffee and Thai and wine. They’ll listen to you jabber on about the same old things you’re unwilling to change and love you anyway. They’ll be the safe places you can cry and practice vulnerability. They’ll nudge you, each time, toward the truest version of yourself.

You will grapple with depression and disordered eating, and you won’t tell anyone, though you wonder if you should. You’ll discover the ways you self-sabotage when people try to care for you, and understand how your quirks and deeper-rooted issues show up in your days. You will agonize over what you should do in the world, over who you should be. You will wonder if you should look a different way, if you should have chosen a different path, if you should, should, should. The shoulds will consume you for a long time.

But you’ll get to a place where you can say — and mostly believe — that the ‘shoulds’ you have in your mind are not helpful to you. Or to anyone else. You’ll try, every day, to keep them quiet. It will, every day, be a work in progress.

You’ll sing in so many karaoke bars, you’ll start and stop and start therapy, you’ll think you want to become a pastor. You’ll get emergency surgery in another country, you’ll read poems that make you cry, you’ll get a master’s degree. You’ll call your mom, you’ll kill some plants, you’ll start this blog.

You’ll guard your heart when you should open it, and give your heart to people who don’t deserve it. You’ll sit with people in their deepest pain, and find moments to celebrate with them, too. You’ll change your mind about so many things — tattoos, sex, meat, religion. Socks, capital letters, coffee, technology. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll do many things right.

So much won’t happen this decade that you thought would. And — even better — so much will happen that you can’t even imagine, things you don’t even know to wish for that will come true. You’ll learn that you can try to plan and control all you want, but that there’s really no use. You’ll repeat this to yourself and, slowly, slowly, learn to hold things lightly, to loosen your grip — if only just a bit. 

And, at 29, you’re going to sit down to write a letter to yourself. You’ll pick up your old journals from that year, giggle at your absolute conviction in one entry and your utter confusion in the one the next day. That is your life — both/and, all the time. You’ll look back at this decade and think, “Yes. This was it. This was mine.”

This decade is yours, dear one. Eyes open, heart wide, bold and gentle. Pay attention to it all.

I promise you, you won’t want to miss a thing. 

All the love,
Kelsey

30 before 30 :: the songs

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These are the defining songs of the last decade of my life.

They aren’t necessarily my favorites. There’d be some overlap but, mostly, that would be a different list. These are the songs that shaped me, that found a spot in my heart and stayed. These are the songs I have a visceral reaction to — they bring me back to moments, remind me of places, or make me think of humans who, even if they’re not in my life anymore, helped create who I am.

There’s Hamilton. Of course. For half of this decade, I listened to this album more than anything else. I know every word and I worked embarrassingly hard to be able to kind of rap ‘Guns and Ships.’ I sobbed to ‘Burn’ in the back corner of a theatre in Chicago, fresh off the biggest heartache of my decade. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or where I am, ‘Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story’ will make me cry every time. This musical has pushed me to write, create, and take chances I didn’t think I could (or should).

There are the songs from college: ‘I Won’t Give Up’ is a song I can’t *stand* now but was all I listened to when my college boyfriend and I broke up. ‘Call Me Maybe’ brings me back to the middle of the crowded Old Broadway dance floor, buzzed on Wonder Woman shots and hoping I’d run into Cute Justin, my rebound crush. ‘Some Nights’ reminds me of the endless runs that Megan and I went on the summer before our senior year, and the talks we had as we tried to sort through what the hell we were going to do with our lives.

There are the Portland songs: ‘This Is The Beginning’ is Steph and I in our empty apartment, before we brought in our haphazardly-assembled furniture and before we made a life in that city. ‘There Will Be A Light’ is sitting in the pews at Salt & Light Lutheran Church, a building that became my community.  ‘Rivers and Roads’ is my final drive away from Portland, through the Columbia Gorge when I wondered what the hell might be waiting for me in Minnesota.

There are the songs that accompanied me on the big lessons of this decade: ‘The Climb’ reminds me that I shouldn’t run a half-marathon if I haven’t run a single mile in a long while. And that I don’t actually like running long distances at all. ‘Give Me Everything’ by Pitbull and ‘Bitch, I’m Madonna,’ ironically, remind me about deep friendship and the lifesaving role of my circle. ‘Heavy’ reminds me not to abandon myself for anyone or anything that makes me feel inferior.

I could add 31 more songs to share stories about from this decade. I could make lists of lyrics or books or quotes or places or even the food I’ve consumed that’s somehow shaped me these last ten years. Maybe I will, and maybe you should too, even if you’re not turning 30 on April 1st. If anything, this exercise has reminded me that everything has purpose. I believe it’s all part of shaping who we are, even if it feels small or insignificant at the time.

When I listen to ‘I Can Change’ on repeat for a month straight? That’s probably going to help me believe that I’m capable of change. When I reread ‘Tiny Beautiful Things’ every year? Those words are going to stick close to me and come to me when I need some wisdom. The fact that I’ve had the same salad for most weekdays of the past four years? Well, at least I’m getting my vegetables. It all stays with us, inside of us somewhere.

And. One last thing. It’s not a fair question to ask of myself, and yet, my very favorite song on this list? ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ by Whitney Houston. There are so many core moments from the past ten years connected to this song: it’s been my karaoke selection in so many cities, singing my heart out to a crowd of strangers and watching them sing along with me. It’s the song I dance to in my bathroom as I get ready for an exciting or hard day. It’s an immediate mood booster when I hear it out in the world, like in the grocery store or in the middle of a workout class.

And while this song is lighthearted, its words are also a reminder of a journey I’ve been on this past decade. Because I do wanna dance with somebody, and I do want to find someone who loves me. But another journey I’ve been on in my 20s? I’ve learned how to love and dance with myself — and that’s been just as worthwhile.

alexander hamilton.

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"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I’ve been asked this question so many times that I've lost count. I'm not someone who obsessively knows about history, or identifies as extremely patriotic, or listens to hip hop and rap in my free time, so it's a question that’s asked with genuine curiosity. Sometimes the question is tinted with a bit of bewilderment. People see my Spotify feed repeat the tracks over and over, scroll through multiple Instagram posts about it, and widen their eyes as I know the details of the PBS documentary by heart and wonder, “Why?”. In some ways, Hamilton has become "my thing," so much so that my students and I once had a conversation where everyone named their own “Hamilton” -- something that they reeeeeeeeeeeally like a lot.

"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I always stumble over the answer when asked, and that answer often changes depending on who asks it. For someone who cares about music, I talk about the allusions to other musicals and 90s hip hop artists; for someone who writes, I share that there are 23,000+ words (!!!) in this work. For someone who cares about history, I talk about the intention behind casting people of color in leading roles, the accuracy of the story, and the years of research Lin-Manuel Miranda did before bringing Hamilton to life. And for someone who cares about me -- the real reason why I've listened to Hamilton nearly every day since I discovered it a year ago -- the answer is a little more complicated.

I remember listening to the Hamilton soundtrack all the way through for the first time. Afterwards, I couldn’t find the words for how I was feeling. Was I happy to have found a beautiful weaving of a story and music? Always. Was I jealous of how those badass sisters could belt? Obviously. Was I proud to be an American and even a small part of this country’s continuing story? I guess so. 

And then I zipped through my copy of Hamilton: The Revolution, the complete libretto with annotations from Lin-Manuel Miranda himself, essays by Jeremy McCarter, and photos from the production. In one of the essays, McCarter writes about Lin-Manuel’s inspiration from ‘Broadway old masters’ like John Kander, who composed Cabaret and Chicago. After seeing the show for the first time, Kander said of Hamilton:  

“I came away feeling like writing. Not writing like Lin, or doing a project like that — it was just that really, really good work makes me want to go to work.”

And there it was.

Listening to and researching and reading and memorizing and fangirling over Hamilton had made me want to create, too. Not a musical or a book or a song or anything related to the founding fathers. Some words on a page. Some something that makes me feel as excited and wide-eyed as I do when the first chords of the opening number start. I feel that way still, even after hundreds of plays through the soundtrack.

Because not only was Alexander Hamilton crazy about words (throughout the show, other characters reference Hamilton's obsession with writing) and wrote “like he was running out of time,” but Lin-Manuel Miranda is also dedicated to his craft. And both men are so damn passionate about what they’re doing — motivated and dedicated to keep doing it, tirelessly, and to try to leave the world with more, powerful, meaningful words than when they came. After reading that quote from John Kander, I realized that’s what I wanted to do, too. I wanted to go to work.

Last month, I splurged during a trip-gone-wonky to Chicago and bought myself tickets to see Hamilton. I overpaid and was in the nosebleed section (literally the top corner of the theater), but it was worth every penny and tear that I shed. 

I couldn't tell you what my favorite part of the night was. It might have been the eruption of applause and shrieks from the crowd when the lights dimmed, both at the beginning of the show and after intermission. Maybe it was the elderly couple two rows ahead of me who danced in their seats the entire night. Or it might have been the new ways the lyrics pierced me, given the state of our country and my heart on November 10th. Lyrics that become more and more relevant based on the election results: "You want a revolution? I want a revelation!" Songs like "Burn" that made me nod and cry and say, "Me too." 

But if I’m being honest, the most important part of the night happened after the show. I walked back to my hotel room and pulled out my journal and wrote. And the next morning I went to a coffee shop and pulled out my journal again and I wrote. 

And here I am, a few weeks later, writing. Even this — my first piece of non-Instagram or non-journal writing in over a month — feels like something. A small, slow step toward that work I want to do in the world. It feels a little electric, which is the best way I know how to describe the feeling I get when I know something isn’t big or flashy, but is important. It's that same feeling I get when I hear those opening chords of my favorite songs. It's the same feeling I'll get when I click "publish" on this writing. It's hard to put into words, but it's part of who I am.

We need to surround ourselves with our own Hamiltons — the things that make us want to do the work we are meant to do in the world and create the things we are meant to create. The things that inspire us, get us thinking and feeling, get us working on the things we might leave in this world, that hopefully make it a little bit better than when we arrived. 

So, what’s your Hamilton?

august 17.

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I've downloaded Timehop, allowing the alerts to greet me as soon as I unlock my phone. I've enabled Facebook's "On This Day," marking the notifications unread until I've scrolled through each memory. I start most days this way: lying in bed after my alarm goes off, scrolling through memory lane. Last year, I Instagrammed the beautiful waterfalls I hiked past while on retreat for my new job. Three years ago, I tweeted about being one week away from hopping on a plane to India. Seven years ago, my best high school friend wrote on my wall to tell me that she would always always always be my friend.

These snippets of the past are kind of like the songs that bring you back to that one night, that one feeling, that one moment in time. But these snippets are always the good stuff -- they're the songs you danced to at that sleepover, the one that played during that kiss, and the one you belted at karaoke. I see the picture of the waterfall and get the same excited butterflies in my stomach that I had as a three-day-old employee. I see the tweet and physically ache for Bangalore and the feeling of hopping on an international flight with my travel pack. I see the post from my friend and immediately screen shot it to her with a few heart emojis, grateful that her promise is still true. These are such good moments.

But what about the rest?

What about the nitty gritty stuff of our hearts and guts that isn't recorded on social media? What about the just-as-real (and maybe even-more-real) stuff of our lives that was around before social media? Timehop and Facebook leave out the stuff that reminds us of the loneliness or the recent breakup or the friendship drama. They don't play the song that we looped on repeat when we said goodbye for the last time, or the one that we had to avoid for awhile, or the one that has always made us tear up a bit. There aren't many Instagrams or tweets that bring up hard stuff, or under-the-surface stuff. This is, of course, by our own choosing -- we purposefully record and remember the butterflies over the breakups, the excitement over the dread, the "life is great" over the "life is great but also really complicated." But still, we feel the real stuff's absence; it's the missing part of our perfectly crafted and curated scroll down memory lane each day.

I needed to look up a date and a memory for an essay-in-progress in an old journal tonight and found that real stuff staring at me from the pages of my bright orange, tulip-covered journal from the summer of 2005. I flipped through pages and found unsent love letters to multiple boys, printed transcripts of AOL Instant Message conversations with those same boys, and my insights into friendship and relationships and school. I found today's date.

August 17, 2005: "I'm ready for school to start. Pumped. I love rain. Last night we went to bed at 5! Time for me to roll out = now (11:22)!"

I read the full entry, giggling alone in my apartment and wondering why I ever thought I should use the phrase "roll out," even if it was just for my eyes only. I returned the journal to its box and pulled out my bright pink, daisy-covered one from the summer of 2006.

August 17, 2006: "He was like 'Where have you been?' and I said 'around.' He was like 'around, huh?' and I said 'Yeah I've sent you a few texts the past few days' and he goes 'yeah' and some other stuff. He said he'd try to call me sometime. I think it was fate."

First, I laughed. (Fate? Really?) And then I kept searching through the pages, unearthing the multicolored hearts and flipping open the elephant with the balloon and holding the engraved feathers, finding the under-the-surface words and feelings from each August 17, the stuff and stories that my Timehop and Facebook wouldn't bring up each year.

August 17, 2008: "I went to a High School Musical 2 party! It was super fun even though I didn't know everyone there very well!"

August 17, 2012: "I explained that I couldn't let him take me out to dinner because I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and am going away. In other words, this is how my heart feels: UGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

August 17, 2014: "How on earth will I know if this is the right path for me? Don't I just need to take one step and then see how that goes? What if I change my mind? Then I do. Dreams and plans and timelines can change. They always do."

As I read each entry, I moved past the picture-perfect parts and into the "life is great but also really complicated" ones. There wasn't a filter or spellcheck or missing snippets in this memory lane. It was all there, messy handwriting and weird analogies and rambling monologues and all. 

And now, this one's there too.

August 17, 2015: I had already Instagrammed my three closest gals from our 7 am breakfast date today. I took my first coffee art photo and started writing my "I just started drinking coffee" Instagram post in my head. I snapped a few pictures of my students, capturing the silly icebreakers and the birthday celebrations and the sacred conversations. But there is more to this August 17 than these good, post-worthy snippets. There was the walk home from work -- to a home I've been living in for over a year now, to a bed which is finally unlofted after an epic battle with the mattress and frame. There was the writing about Wicked and watching Ross and Rachel and their new baby on Friends and, now, the reliving of so many August 17s. Good and hard, big and little, and under-the-surface pieces that make up this day.

According to Timehop and Facebook, August 17 has not been a special day in the history of my life. Except that it is. Of course it is. Because life -- good, bad, and real -- happened then and is happening now. August 17 was fun in 2008 and heartbreaking in 2012 and insightful in 2014. And now, in 2015, it's an ode to my journaling, or to anyone's journaling, or to creating an outlet to remember the under-the-surface, "life is great but also really complicated" stuff somehow. It's also a reminder that memories exist outside of those that social media reminds us of, that the unseen and undocumented snippets matter just as much -- if not more -- than those that show up on our screens. And it is a plea to my future self, who will see this on August 17, 2016: sit with and learn from and let all the snippets of your life, from August 17 and all the other days, show up beyond your screen.

Let them live in your heart and guts.

until next time.

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I’ve always loved next steps. The action plan, the to do list documenting the action plan, the “so what” that follows every action. I love the orderliness of it, the finished product looming in the distance. Somehow, following up with each action makes everything feel more legitimate: that doing this right now will lead to something else. Something bigger, better, greater. Like, after I’ve read a really good quote in a book, I write it down in my journal so I don’t forget it; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve read a really good (or even a really bad) book, I add it to my growing list of all the books I’ve read since ninth grade; just remembering that I’ve read it doesn’t feel like enough. And after I’ve written something that feels good and real, I publish it to this blog; sometimes, just writing for myself doesn’t feel like enough.

With this, comes that. When I do this, I know that happens next.

But I put my first bit of writing online—for friends and family and anyone with Internet access to read—without a plan. I had an idea that meant something to me and some words that had been hangin’ out in my soul for awhile, so putting them “out there” seemed like a logical next step. But that was it; I didn’t know what would come after. I started this blog without a timeline, without a prepared follow-up post, without a HootSuite account with scheduled posts, and without an idea of what the heck I’d write about to fill these virtual pages. 

When I hit “publish” on that first post two weeks ago, I felt unprepared. I didn’t have a next step. I had done what I wanted to do and didn’t have a plan for what happened next. A wave of questions rolled over in my mind: When should I post next? What should I write about? How often is too often to post? What if I don’t have something new to post by the time I think I should post by? Will this blog lose legitimacy if I don’t post on a regular basis? Does this blog even have any legitimacy?

These questions were followed by my next-step-self’s answers. I should probably post at least once each week. That’s what people expect when they read a blog, right? At least one post each week. Otherwise people might forget that I even have a blog. And that’s how often all of my favorite writers post on their blogs. I should be able to come up with something new to post at least once each week. That’s a good goal: once each week.

So, I listened to my answer-self and carved out time within the week to write. I sat at my desk, turned on the instrumental music, stared at the screen, and waited for the week’s words to come. Writing a blog was on my to do list; in bright blue dry erase marker across my whiteboard, it stared me down at eye-level each time I sat to pay a bill or check my email. I desperately wanted to cross it off and complete a next step in this new project. I wanted a follow-up. I wanted Writing Life Letters to have some legitimacy. 

But, underneath it all, I really just wanted it to have meaning. I wanted it to be enough.

That’s at the heart of so much of what we do as humans. Or, at least it’s at the core of what I often do. The questioning and doubting, the attempting to “do” more according to society’s or my own standards, in order to make myself or my work or my writing or my life feel more real and valued. I create tasks, lists, and calendar events that remind me that when I do this, I get closer to that. Each next step becomes part of a bigger plan for my day, week, and life.

But my writing’s meaning doesn’t come from having done it on time. Its value doesn’t rest in how often I post. I did not start writing to follow a certain set of steps. I did not start writing life letters to stick to a strict schedule, to cross each post off of a to do list, or to live up to standards to make myself (and my writing) feel more legitimate. I started writing because I wanted a place to put my thoughts and ideas. Whether those thoughts come once a day or once a week or once a month doesn’t matter. It’s okay that there are no next steps—no new ideas for posts bubbling up from me—after I publish this. 

The meaning and value and enoughness are there; they’ve been there from the moment I sat down to write. They’ll be there the next time I sit down to write too—whenever that may be. 

So, until next time.