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A Letter to My Former, Childless Self
You’re 28-years-old, and in one year, believe it or not, you’ll be holding your sweet 6-week-old girl, Bee. She’s healthy and beautiful, and you’re insanely exhausted. But you’re happy. Happier than you’ll ever know.
I’m sure you had a hard day today, full of miscommunicated emails, tough deadlines and work woes. And a year later, you’ll have another hard day. A day full of spit-up, diaper-changing marathons and all-night crying sessions (both for yourself and Bee!). And although I know you work incredibly hard at your job, I want you to know this:
It doesn’t matter. The unnecessary stressing over which black heel to don at next week’s summertime soiree. The pangs of buyer’s remorse when you’d spent too much on that new credenza. The crippling indecision over which nail polish hue you should select for your pedicure.
Because one year from now, you’ll forget all of that existed. You’ll be in the thick of a newborn phase that is so emotionally exhausting (and at the same time, more rewarding than anything you’ve ever done), it won’t matter to you that you missed last week’s soiree. In fact, you probably won’t be able to spell soiree.
And your new life will be challenging, and it will make you cry. A lot. But hang in there, because I’ve been told it gets better. And I have a funny feeling that two years from now? Your world will change yet again and I’ll be writing this letter with a 13-month-old daughter on my knee.
I can’t wait to tell you everything.