11:29 p.m. hey, little emma

I haven’t written in a while—sorry about that. But honestly, it couldn’t have been avoided. Junior year has hit like a tidal wave, pulling me under before I even had a chance to take a breath. Now I understand why it’s so infamous. The shifting social circles, the endless standardized tests, the nerve-wracking competitions—life has become a fast, dizzying blur of change. Some nights, when the weight of it all settles too heavily on my chest, I find myself scrolling through old photos, looking into the wide-eyed face of the little girl I used to be. And I wonder:

Would she be proud of me?

When I was younger, I created a vision of teenage me. I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, crayons in hand, sketching out a dream version of myself—taller, with long, flowing hair and wispy bangs, big eyes full of quiet wonder. Beside my drawing, in messy, hopeful handwriting, I wrote my goals: I would become a ballerina, a pianist, and a professional tennis player.

And yet, here I am at seventeen—none of those things. Ballet slipped away in middle school, a result of Covid. Piano faded into the background as high school demanded more and more attention. Tennis simply dissolved. And long hair? I’ve never been able to keep up with it.

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve let little Emma down. She wanted to be poised and graceful, a princess from a Disney film. Instead, I’m clumsy. Loud. Stubborn. But real. I live honestly, even if it’s not the life she imagined. Still, a part of me aches for what could have been—who I might have been—if I had just held on a little longer, if I hadn't quit, if I had molded myself to be that Emma.

I was confiding in a close friend about this when she reminded me of something important: Little me never could have predicted the things I did become.

The girl who once stood at the edge of the playground, anxiously willing recess to end, now leads a team of passionate speech and debaters. The quiet, reserved kid who used to shy away from group projects has somehow built deep, soul-stirring friendships—the kind that feel like the stuff of movies. The child who hated talking to others is now the extroverted member at a crowded lunch table. I’ve stood in front of congressmen and made my voice heard. I’ve painted murals for my community, left pieces of my heart on canvases and in conversations. I've breathed with kindness, helped those smaller than me. I have lived boldly. I have loved loudly.

So maybe, just maybe, little Emma wouldn’t be disappointed at all. Maybe she’d be in awe.

I don’t know where I’ll be in ten years. But I do know that when I’m 27, I’ll look back at 17-year-old me the way I now look at her—as a version of myself still figuring it all out, still learning, still dreaming. And because I know she’ll wonder, just like I do now, I want to leave her a message:

Here’s what I hope for you, future me—

1. That you’re doing something that brings you both security and fulfillment.

2. That you’re surrounded by people who love you and nurture your soul.

3. That you’re traveling, exploring, meeting new people, collecting stories from places you’ve only ever imagined.

That’s all I can give you for now. I know you’ll surprise me.

Cheers,

emma