If I could sit across from my younger self, I think I’d start with a long silence. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because I’d need a moment to take her in — all that restless hope, all that fragile confidence, the sparkle in her eyes that hides behind uncertainty. I’d want to reach across the table, take her hand, and just let her breathe. Her shoulders are tense from trying to hold the world together, and she doesn’t even realize how tired she is.
I’d start gently. “Sweetheart,” I’d say, “you don’t have to have it all figured out. Life isn’t a race to be won. It’s a journey to be walked with Jesus.”
At first, she’d probably smile politely, thinking I’m just another older woman with “wisdom.” But I’d wait — because I remember that version of me well. She wanted so badly to do things right — to be successful, admired, loved, and faithful all at the same time. What she couldn’t see then is that trying to chase everything eventually costs you peace. And peace only comes when you stop striving and start resting in Christ.
Chasing the Wrong Approval
If I could tell her one thing early on, it would be this: chasing approval is a dead-end road. I spent too many years trying to please everyone — parents, friends, teachers, church folks — constantly measuring myself against what I thought they wanted. Their approval became my scoreboard. And yet, no matter how well I performed, how good I looked, or how hard I tried, it never felt like enough.
I’d tell my younger self that “enough” isn’t something people can give. Only God can. We don’t become lovable when we finally get everything right; we were loved before we ever got started. The moment God calls us His beloved, that’s the identity that doesn’t change when opinions do.
If she could understand that early — that human approval is cotton candy and God’s affirmation is bread for the soul — she’d save herself years of anxiety and self-doubt.
Love Isn’t the Savior
I’d lean back in my chair, watching her eyes flicker like she’s waiting for the part about love and romance. I’d smile. “You’ll meet a few men,” I’d tell her. “Some will make big promises, some will push boundaries, some will mean well, and others won’t. But remember this — no man can heal the parts of you that only Jesus can reach.”
Romance isn’t redemption. That truth took me too long to learn. The right man is a blessing, yes, but he’s not the Savior. Expecting him to carry a role reserved for Jesus will only leave you disappointed and him overwhelmed.
I’d tell her that loneliness isn’t proof something’s wrong with her. Sometimes it’s God’s workshop. He uses quiet seasons to do His deepest work — to untangle insecurity, to prune pride, to heal hidden wounds. One day she’ll thank Him for the nights she thought He forgot her because that’s when He was building her strength. Waiting seasons aren’t wasted ones; they’re preparation for something better.
Integrity Always Costs Something
“You’ll have chances,” I’d tell her softly, “to take shortcuts. To compromise your values just a bit. To do what seems easier instead of what’s right.”
I’d pause there, knowing she’ll do it anyway a few times — we all do. But I’d look into her eyes and say, “The peace that comes from doing right before God lasts longer than any applause.”
I’d tell her to treasure her integrity, even when standing alone feels lonely. It’s in those moments you find your backbone — not by winning arguments, but by honoring Christ. Every choice to stay faithful when it would’ve been easier not to will quietly strengthen something inside her.
Eventually, she’ll learn that conviction isn’t a burden. It’s a gift — a compass that keeps her from drifting.
Learning to Wait
I’d sigh, thinking about all the prayers I rushed and all the dreams I tried to make happen on my own timeline. “You’ll spend a lot of energy, sweetheart, asking God to hurry,” I’d tell her. She’d laugh nervously, because patience was never her strong suit.
I’d describe how she’ll pray for love, for recognition, for her plans to unfold quickly — and how God, in His gentle wisdom, will often say, “Not yet.” She’ll cry some nights thinking He said no, when in reality, He was saying, “Wait, I’m not finished preparing you.”
Delays aren’t denials. They’re divine developments. God isn’t slow; He’s strategic. What feels like silence is often His work beneath the surface, strengthening trust so that when blessings come, they don’t crush us. I’d tell her, “When you finally realize His timing is protection, not punishment, trust gets a lot easier.”
The Grace to Forgive
I’d notice her eyes drop when I mention forgiveness, and I’d smile knowingly. She’s already holding onto hurts she doesn’t know how to release. I’d tell her this: carrying bitterness is like drinking poison and wondering why her soul aches.
There will be people who hurt her deeply, people she’ll want to forget, and some she won’t know how to forgive. But I’d tell her grace is freedom — not just for them, but for her. Forgiveness isn’t excusing what was done; it’s handing the pain back to God and letting Him heal what she can’t fix.
I’d tell her that forgiving herself might be even harder. She’ll replay mistakes, analyze decisions, and doubt her worth. But guilt does not glorify God. Grace does. The woman who can extend mercy to herself has finally understood the mercy she’s been given.
Strength Found in Surrender
My younger self always thought strength meant being independent — proving capable, efficient, put-together. I smile thinking about how much she’ll try to carry alone. If I could, I’d tell her that real strength begins where self-sufficiency ends.
There will come a day when she runs out of answers, when her prayers sound more like sighs. She’ll feel like a failure. But that’s when Jesus will meet her — not with condemnation, but compassion. She’ll learn that surrender doesn’t mean giving up; it means finally giving in to grace. Somehow, He’ll turn her brokenness into testimony and her tears into wisdom that comforts others.
The Faithfulness of God
I’d remind her that even when she stops chasing Him, He never stops chasing her. There will be seasons of rebellion, of doubt, of drifting. But every time she runs, Jesus will already be on the shoreline waiting. She’ll see it eventually — that His love never wavers, His mercy never runs out. Even the detours fit inside His grace.
I’d tell her to pay attention to the little miracles: the right person calling when she’s lonely, the unexpected provision when money runs short, the peace that comes out of nowhere when her world feels unsteady. Those aren’t random coincidences — they’re fingerprints of a faithful God proving, again and again, that she’s never alone.
What Truly Matters
Then I’d tell her how the priorities shift with time. The things that seem so urgent now — success, approval, image — will fade in importance. What will matter most in the end are the things unseen: faith, kindness, character, and the quiet consistency of walking with Jesus every day.
I’d tell her to build her life on things that last — prayer before panic, truth before comfort, forgiveness before pride, and Jesus above everything else.
She’ll see that faith isn’t about performance or perfection; it’s about dependence. The more she learns to lean on Him, the more beautiful life becomes — even when it’s messy.
What I’d Leave Her With
Before I leave that table, I’d give her one final truth: no matter what twists or detours life takes, Jesus will still be enough. When dreams fade, when people disappoint, when everything familiar changes — He remains constant. His love will hold her steady in every storm.
She’d probably look at me then, eyes wide and a little uncertain. “That sounds hard,” she’d say.
And I’d smile softly, feeling tears gathering in my own eyes. “It is,” I’d whisper. “But it’s worth it. Because one day, you’ll understand — peace doesn’t come from getting everything you want. It comes from wanting nothing more than Him.”
I’d get up then, leaving her with that, and as I walk away, I’d pray she believes it sooner than I did. I’d pray that she takes the long way home with Jesus at her side, unhurried, unafraid, learning that the best life isn’t the one she plans but the one she trusts Him to write.
And maybe — just maybe — she’d smile after me, a little less restless, a little more free, beginning to realize that the story has always been His from the start.