Sunflower Seed: On Growing a Year Older
This is an archived post from Substack from Feb 13, 2025
Sunflower Seeds are short-form thought pieces where I either supplement a previous article or I simply write whatever I feel like without too much interrogation into my personal anecdotes. These may be half-formed or underbaked, but I welcome anything that grows out of them :)
As I am writing this, I am sitting alone in a local bubble tea shop, enjoying a meal on my own and contemplating my life up until this point. I will be turning 32 in about five hours. For the first time in the whole of my life, I am finally at peace with what the years have brought me, and I am so filled with gratitude to have been able to live this life. For the first time, I am not thinking of the things that are missing, or the things that are yet to come, but I am simply existing as an organism in this universe, a speck grown from the things that have made me.
Having gone through the gamut of striving, destroying, and grieving so many milestones previously set up for me, it’s strange to feel almost comfortable with not knowing what the fuck I’m doing at all times.
In many ways, so few things have gone according to plan, and though I remember so vividly how much it can suck—the way it feels to confront failure after failures, both personal and professional—I have also been brought to this beautiful place in my life.
In reflecting on my birthday today, I vaguely remembered a letter I wrote to my future self as a child, and I managed to dig it up. It came into my mailbox in 2019, when I had turned 25, yet I had completely forgotten its existence. The letter was written in 2007—I was 14 years old, and it begins by documenting the exact time and space I was in (incredible how little instances of your core self can show up at times!). It contains a beautifully nostalgic list of friends I made, how I met them, and girls I crushed on. There were moments of candid vulnerability too, and moments that feel like pleas I wanted so desperately for my older self to hear in the absence of other trusted adults in my life.
I hold that part of me close, and I nourish her whenever I can to thank her for the years she learned to survive. It is for her that I am driven to create better worlds, no matter how small each step may be.
In trying to access this time capsule a second time, I found a different letter. This time, I’d written it in 2010: to my 37-year-old self at 17. I was incredibly unprepared for the emotions this brought on:
I truly wonder where you are in life now? Have you become a teacher as planned? I have a list of writing activities, class activities rather in my green notebook. In case you forgot. They are all inspirations from teachers, conversations I eavesdropped in, and such. I imagine you living in a beautiful, cozy home. Not too big. Perhaps an apartment or a townhouse, two bedrooms. One for you and your spouse and one for the kid. You’ll have two cats and a dog. Perhaps a Scottish fold, a tabby, and a corgi. You’ll drive a car that isn’t too flashy, and you love your job. You’ll be an English teacher, and the kids will love you. Some will hate you but will secretly admire you too. Every year you’ll take the month off and go traveling, one month in one country. You’ll learn their culture and a bit of their language. Because you love learning and you’ll use every excuse to widen your scope. There isn’t anything that doesn’t fascinate you. Of course, these are all ideals, but wouldn’t it be nice?
I may be a bud now, but you will be in blossom every year, like the tulips at home [in Vancouver]. Every year they come back. No one knows who planted it, but every year they are strong, even when you step all over them. They pissed me off at first, but I do admire their strength. You will live strong and you will live happy, no matter where you are now. Of course, you are much too young to die, but please. Do not hesitate. Don’t be afraid of aging because you’ve already done all you could. Don’t look back in your creaky rocking chair on your creaky porch and think, “God I should’ve done that.” They say youth is wasted on the young. But not you. You better not have wasted it. If you did, then you better go out there and get it back. Get out there and live. Fulfill my list. Fulfill my vision. Fulfill every notion of happiness in your head. Just don’t forget. You were once, as you may still be, a poet and a student. Don’t ever give up those titles for anything.
I was so incredibly touched by how loving my 17-year-old self was. I’d remembered only the overwhelming self-doubt and my failure to live up to the person I thought I wanted to be. I’d forgotten that immense curiosity and that optimism I thought I’d practiced only in recent years. Most of all, I’d forgotten the faith I had in myself. I knew I was shy and fearful—I still am in many ways—but I trusted I would find what I needed.
And I did.
If I met my past self today, I would’ve told her that I tried to live up to her premonitions and I failed. I failed in every way, but I learned to dream bigger. I learned to throw those lists away and take in the beauty this world contains. I’d tell her how thankful I am for the failings that guided me, the moments of fearlessness that made me, and the community that loves me. I would tell her that I never stopped being a student and a poet.
I think she would be proud.