A Letter to Me

If I could sit down with the person I used to be—the one who thought every heartbreak was the end of the world, who thought pain would last forever, who didn’t yet understand that life keeps going—I think I’d just start with this: You’re going to be okay.

At seventeen, the world feels small but overwhelming all at once. Every disappointment feels final. Every rejection feels personal. Every heartbreak feels like proof that you’ll never be whole again. But that’s the strange and beautiful truth about growing up—you start to realize that the pain that once seemed unbearable becomes the very thing that shapes you into someone softer, wiser, stronger.

“If I could write a letter to me and send it back in time to myself at seventeen…” I’d tell that younger version of me that sometimes it’s supposed to hurt. Because hurt means you cared. It means you showed up. It means you had the courage to risk your heart in a world that doesn’t always handle it gently. And that’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.

I’d tell them that the heartbreak that feels like it will destroy you will actually teach you the kind of love you deserve. That one day, you’ll look back and realize that what felt like the end was really the beginning of becoming. The pain doesn’t last forever—but the lessons do.

“I know it’s tough when you break up after seven months, and yeah, I know you really liked her…” There’s a tenderness in that line, isn’t there? A recognition that no pain is too small to matter when you’re young. At seventeen, seven months feels like forever. It feels like all the tomorrows you’d dreamed about just disappeared. But that’s the thing about time—it has a way of healing what you thought was unhealable.

“Pain like that is fast and it’s rare.” It feels like it will last forever, but it doesn’t. And when it passes, you’ll carry something precious with you—empathy. Because once you’ve known that kind of hurt, you’ll understand the pain of others in a deeper way. You’ll know how to listen, how to comfort, how to love someone through their own heartbreak.

If I could write a letter to me, I’d remind myself that life doesn’t unfold all at once—it unfolds slowly, beautifully, messily. And that’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out at seventeen. Or twenty. Or even forty. You just have to keep showing up, keep trying, keep believing that the story isn’t over yet.

“You got so much going for you, going right—but I know at seventeen it’s hard to see past Friday night.” Isn’t that the truth? When you’re young, the horizon ends at the weekend. You don’t see the bigger picture because life hasn’t taught you yet that things change, and that change, though painful, is often the doorway to grace.

There’s a kind of tunnel vision in youth—a belief that what hurts now will always hurt. But if you could see yourself years from now, laughing again, loving again, living through things you once thought would break you, you’d understand that life is generous. It takes, yes—but it also gives back, often in ways you never expected.

To the younger me—or to anyone standing in that space right now—I’d say this: don’t lose hope just because you can’t see it yet. The things you think define you now won’t forever. The people who walk away make room for the ones who will stay. The dreams that fall apart clear space for something even better.

You’ll make mistakes. You’ll get hurt again. But you’ll also heal again. You’ll grow in ways your seventeen-year-old self couldn’t even imagine. You’ll learn that real strength isn’t about pretending you’re fine—it’s about admitting when you’re not and still choosing to get up anyway.

“He wasn’t right for you, and still you feel like there’s a knife sticking out of your back and you’re wondering if you’ll survive it.” The truth is, you will. Not only will you survive, but you’ll thrive. You’ll carry the memory, sure—but not as a wound, as a reminder. A reminder that you were capable of love. That you’re capable still.

One day, you’ll sit across from someone who sees you for all that you are and all that you’ve been through, and you’ll thank God for every heartbreak that brought you there. You’ll realize that what broke you also built you.

And if I could sign that letter, I’d close it the way the song does: “You’ll make it through this, and you’ll see—you’re still around to write this letter to me.”

Because that’s the proof, isn’t it? You made it. You kept going. You’re still here.

That’s what I’d tell my seventeen-year-old self: every storm you thought would drown you has already become part of your strength. Every heartbreak that made you cry in the dark was shaping you for something better. Every failure, every loss, every broken plan—none of it was wasted.

And if I could whisper one last thing into the ear of that uncertain, emotional, hopeful teenager, it would be this:

One day, you’ll look back on all of it—not with bitterness, but with gratitude. You’ll see how far you’ve come. You’ll see that pain doesn’t last forever, but faith does. You’ll see that love isn’t something you lose—it’s something you grow into.

And you’ll smile, because the person you became was worth everything it took to get there.