A Letter to My 33-Year-Old Self

A birthday card written between making forts and folding laundry and cutting strawberries

Next week is my 33rd birthday (and yes, I did have to double-check how old I’m turning). To honor the occasion, I wrote myself a letter, as a way to mark how I grew over this past year and what I long for in the coming one. I hope you enjoy reading it!

Dear Chloe,

You know by now that a birthday holds a lot of hope—you’ve had quite a few of them so far.

Hope for new, and more, and better. Hope for finally.

But you also know that this list of hopes gets more grounded with every gray root that sprouts up. Less imaginative, more pragmatic. More sensible, less childlike.

Getting a six-pack is trimmed down to starting a semi-regular Pilates habit. Adding ten new clients becomes maintain current workload without crashing out.

It’s not that the dreams get smaller over time, but that my willingness to surrender what’s necessary pales in comparison. “What I wouldn’t give for _______” becomes “I wouldn’t give _______ for anything.” What I’m confident I can accomplish in this life grows bigger every year, just never as big as my list of non-negotiables.

It’s cruel that only in becoming a mother did I realize all that I am capable of achieving. Unfortunately, I would never spend this boundless potential on anything but washing unlimited berries or cracking the code to a perfect nap schedule.

I am fearless in the face of danger, resilient to rejection, and limitless in my ability to generate solutions, though I funnel most of this creative energy into trying to convince a tiny person to eat vegetables.

What’s worse is the influence that this ketchup addict has had on me. Where I used to spend all my time on lucrative business opportunities, monetizing my every move, I now find myself enjoying building with Legos (for free, with no plan to scale).

I’m taking up new hobbies that feel too late to start. I bought a camera and spend less than 1% of the time I am playing with it thinking about how to start my 12th side hustle. My son holds up a Hot Wheel and goes, “Vroom.” I take a picture of the light hitting the side of his face that I’ll never post. One day, I might slide it behind a sheet of plastic in a book that maybe a dozen people will ever thumb through.

Young people have so much passion, so many fantasies. At 23, the question “What do you want?” cues a lengthy monologue. At 33, it mainly applies to what we’re having for dinner.

At 23, you thought you were too old to start. At 33, you’ve realized that life is at its best as a beginner, from watching the best one around.

At this point, my hopes and dreams and desires have all been dashed—then surpassed in the most unimaginable ways. I wouldn’t want the life I dreamed up in my youth. Now I pray that if I stand still, not much will change, and time won't move too quickly.

So when I blow out my figurative 33 candles, I know nothing will come to mind except that I might keep doing it all every day, and then watch it start over the next.

This year, I will attempt to fail as freely as a child, shorten my reactions to those of a distractible toddler (on a good day), and hope as wildly as a boy whose biggest dream is to go to the park with both his mom and his dad.

With Love,
Chloe

Photo by Emmy Withrow

Unless I’m struck by creative lightning in the middle of the night, I’ll be taking a pause from Mother Memos next week to celebrate and rest and all that fun stuff, but I’ll be back in your inboxes in December. Also, I have no desire to compete with Black Friday emails and the inevitable bulk deleting that will occur.

I hope my fellow Americans enjoy their Thanksgiving (and yes, I do have a few international subscribers, not to brag or anything!!).