A Letter to Little Brandon

            For those of my friends who follow me on Facebook, you’re well aware I “like” and “share” some odd content. There’s quotes, memes, news articles, more memes, and pictures—lots of pictures. It’s just me being myself.

One such page I like and am an avid follower of is called Word Porn. No, it isn’t a page dedicated to raunchy photos of sexy librarians and alluring teachers; there are, after all, filters that prohibit such content from showing up in users’ News Feeds. Plus, it’s not like it’s that difficult to find such content elsewhere on the internet.

            No, Word Porn is a page dedicate to those who love literature and their creators. Regular posts from their administrators include definitions of interesting words, quotes from famous writers, and passages from poems and novels. I’ve “shared” more of their content than any other page I follow, including BuzzFeed and The Week. 

            The other day, they posed a question: If you could write a two-word note to your younger self, what would it say?

            I shared it moments later on my News Feed with my two words: Do it.

            Simple, I know. But the meaning behind those single syllable words was strong. I don’t believe in regrets, or linger on them much. However, for a brief second, I thought about it. What if I would’ve “done it” when I was little—and no, I’m not talking about regular pornography’s way of “doing it”.  I’m talking about something much different.

So what if I would’ve done it? What if I would’ve stood up to my fears and done what needed to be done? What would’ve happened then? Question upon question could pile up inside one’s head.  

So I let it be.

The next day, when I turned on my computer and loaded the internet, my Facebook page was open. The two word question—and my response—was the only thing I saw on the screen. Do it. Do it. Do it.

            That’s when I realized I should’ve been more specific in my letter. “Do it” is broad. Do what, exactly? See, I should’ve written my letter with two different words: tell them. By “them” I mean everyone, and by “tell” I mean everything.

I realize that that’s still incredibly vague. Just hear me out.  

When I was little, I did everything everyone wanted with little objection. I’d keep my comments to myself out of fear that I’d be persecuted for my ideas or opinions. I was a yes-man—or more accurately, a yes-boy—doing everything I could to appease others without first thinking of the impact it had on myself. I should’ve told them how I felt. Instead, I didn’t.

But after contemplating that a minute, I realized that “tell them” wouldn’t help my younger self any more than “do it” would. I’d overthought it, and when I reread the question a third time, I came to my final, definitive answer.

            “Be yourself.”

That’d be the letter I’d write. “Be yourself” is perfect. But not just any self will do. Not one that’s constructed by the judgments and condemnations of others, or by their impressions of who you are and what you should be. None of those will work. The only way to be yourself is to be your true self, my true self. It’s the self I’ve developed, recognized, and accepted now.

            Friends responded with some great two word letters to their younger counterparts. “Try it!” and “Slow down!” were some of them. “Trust yourself” was a third.

            I think some people could mistake the purpose of the exercise, though. They might take it as a means to look back at past failures and fears, relive them, and then wish they had done something about them sooner.

“Why didn’t I do it when I was younger? Why didn’t I tell them? Would life have been better had I? Oh, I wish I would’ve done it!” someone might bemoan.

Me, I think it’s a way to show how much you’ve developed. Writing that letter to a younger you is about self-realization, and knowing whatever mistakes you made or things you did or didn’t do, aren’t in control of you anymore. They’ve been conquered, and whatever it was you wanted to your younger to do—whether it’s trusting yourself, slowing down, staying positive, or what have you—they pose no threat anymore. They’ve been overcome. Deficiencies in character are now strengths. They hold no weight anymore, so there’s no need to worry about whether they’d given your life a different outcome had you improved upon them sooner.

In my case, I’ve done it. I’ve told them; and now, I live life being myself.

I hope you do too.