“The Day I Spoke to My Past Self”

The Day I Spoke to My Past Self

I don’t remember falling asleep that night. I only remember the feeling of exhaustion weighing down on me, the kind that seeps into your bones after another day of pretending to have everything together. When my eyes opened again, I wasn’t in my room. Instead, I found myself standing in a playground I hadn’t seen in over twenty years.

The rusted swing set, the cracked pavement near the basketball hoop, the old oak tree where we used to sit and trade snacks—it was all there, untouched by time. My heart clenched as I realized exactly where I was: the playground behind my childhood elementary school.

And then I saw her.

A girl with scraped knees, messy hair tied in uneven pigtails, and a backpack nearly bigger than her body. She was crouched in the sandbox, building a crooked tower that looked ready to collapse at any second.

My breath caught. That was me. My ten-year-old self.

She looked up, squinting as if trying to place me. I must have looked familiar to her—same eyes, same nervous half-smile—but older, worn down by the years.

“Are you… my mom?” she asked, tilting her head.

I laughed, though it came out shakier than I expected. “No, I’m you. Just… older.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Prove it.”

I bent down and whispered the name of the stuffed rabbit hidden under her pillow, the one she never admitted she still slept with. Her jaw dropped, and I knew she believed me.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other. It felt strange, standing face-to-face with the version of myself who still thought life was made up of spelling tests, sleepovers, and which boy passed you notes in class. She didn’t yet know the weight of heartbreak, or bills, or loss. But she also didn’t know the strength she would grow into.

“What’s it like?” she asked. “Being older?”

I swallowed hard. There were so many answers, and none of them simple.

“It’s… complicated,” I said finally. “You’ll have some of the happiest moments you could ever imagine. You’ll also cry harder than you think is possible. But you survive. You keep going, even when you don’t want to. And you’ll be proud of that.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound fun.”

I chuckled softly. “It’s not always fun. But it’s worth it.”

She went quiet, poking at her sand tower, then whispered, “Do people like us?”

That question broke me a little. I remembered being ten and already worrying about fitting in, about being too weird, too quiet, too much of something or not enough of anything.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “You’ll find people who love you exactly as you are. Not everyone, of course, but the right ones. And you won’t have to change yourself to keep them. In fact, the more you try to be someone else, the lonelier you’ll feel. Be yourself, even when it’s hard.”

She gave me a doubtful look, the kind only a child can give, like she wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth.

“Will I be happy?” she asked after a pause.

That one made me hesitate. Happiness, I’d learned, wasn’t a permanent state. It was fleeting, shifting, something you had to chase sometimes and sometimes just allow yourself to feel.

“You’ll be happy often,” I said. “But not always. And that’s okay. The sad days make the happy ones shine brighter.”

She nodded slowly, digesting my words in the serious way only kids can when they sense something important is being said.

“Do you have any advice for me?” she asked finally.

I knelt so we were eye level. “Yes. Don’t waste time being afraid of failing. You’ll fail anyway, sometimes spectacularly, but it won’t be the end of the world. Also, take care of your friendships—they’ll matter more than grades or trophies. And listen—don’t be so quick to think you’re right all the time. The world is bigger than you can imagine right now.”

Her small hand reached out and touched mine. “Will I be okay?”

I felt tears sting my eyes. “Yes. You’ll be more than okay. You’ll be strong. You’ll be brave. And you’ll be you, which is the best thing you can be.”

Just then, the world began to blur, the playground fading around us. I wanted to hold on, to stay longer, but she was already dissolving into the sunlight.

When I woke up in my bed, the weight on my chest felt lighter. Maybe the whole thing was just a dream. Maybe it was my tired mind playing tricks on me. But part of me believes that, in some strange way, I really did meet my younger self.

And if she remembers nothing else, I hope she remembers this: she will be okay.