Recently, I completed the last written response to my twelve-part letter series to my senior self. These letter prompts, which I started responding to in the eighth grade, have been my way of creating a time capsule of who I was, and who I am. 

Normally, I’ve found it easy to rant on and on for a page about prompts such as “Where do you want to go?” or “What are your favorite things right now?” However, the last prompt that I had been pushing aside for as long as possible was the most difficult to construct a response to: “What does your future self need to hear right now?” 

The concept of giving advice to someone I don’t know yet—that I can’t know yet—puzzled me. However, the idea of giving myself advice, and a wiser version of myself at that, perplexed me even further. So, I tried to think of the things that I already knew about her, the things that probably couldn’t change about us, and this thought alone gave me the entire concept for the letter that I wrote.

I have always struggled intensely with change; even the simplest of alterations to the patterns and routines of my daily life can throw me. I’ve been this way since I can remember, and I doubt it’s something I’ll work on between now and my graduation, so, to a version of myself who is most likely terrified of all the things in her life that are changing, I outlined the things that can’t change. 

The moments happily, and forever, trapped in the past.

To cherish a moment is much more difficult than to experience one. It’s so challenging to realize when you’re truly making a good memory. Recently, I’ve been forcing myself to take it all in, to realize the importance and the blessing of moments I took for granted, and to cherish all of the memories that can’t be taken away, nor be tainted by the fracturing rod of college or the intense grasp of growing up. 

The unique calm I got to experience learning to paint alongside the guide of optional school and zoom calls during the weirdest three months of my entire life. The conversations I shared with some of the best of “Cohort A” during third lunch in one of my least favorite classrooms, (only because I never learned how to do stoichiometry). 

I gave a full-blown TedTalk in front of an audience who valued and processed my words, but even more fulfilling, I got to watch my friends share their words and step into a more sure and confident version of themselves. 

In the talkative walls of an auditorium, I learned the kind of person I should aspire to be. I got to become who I’ve always wanted to be and do the things that a less confident version of myself would be shocked I accomplished. With the guidance of the kindest and most genuine souls, I grew more over a span of three months than I ever had in my sixteen years prior. 

I witnessed the most genuine smile I’d ever seen from a choir teacher—who is so much more than that—as he listened to us sing “Thank You for the Music” for the last time ever. On the same night, I heard individuals who had guided me through every musical step of my high school career sing their final goodbyes, and I got to realize how far they had come not only in terms of who they were but also how much they all meant to me. 

These memories will stay perfectly preserved and untouched by the clasp of change, as will the core foundation of the individuals in them. No matter where people scatter, truly good people tend to stay good; and if I now can realize that, so can a me, older and wiser.