.png.jpg)
If I could sit down with my younger self — really sit down, not to lecture or correct him — I don’t think I’d start with advice.
I’d probably start by listening.
He was trying hard. Harder than anyone realized. He wanted to do well, to be good, to get it right. He carried a quiet seriousness about life, even then, and a sense that there was something important he didn’t want to miss.
I’d want him to know that effort matters — but so does patience. That life isn’t something you solve early and then live out neatly. It unfolds. Slowly. Often unevenly. And some of the things that feel urgent now will soften with time, while other things you barely notice will turn out to matter a great deal.
I’d tell him that it’s OK to slow down. That not everything has to be figured out right now. There will be seasons of striving, and seasons of waiting, and neither one means you’re doing it wrong.
Some lessons only arrive after you’ve lived with questions longer than you’d like.
I’d tell him that wanting more doesn’t mean something is wrong with you — but chasing more won’t always give you what you think it will. There will be moments when you finally reach what you worked toward and still feel unsettled. That feeling isn’t failure. It’s often an invitation — to look a little deeper, to ask better questions, to notice what success can’t provide.
I’d tell him that worry feels productive, even responsible, but it rarely changes outcomes. Most of what keeps you awake at night never happens the way you imagine it will. And when difficult things do come — and they will — you’ll discover a steadiness in yourself that you didn’t know was there. You’ll handle more than you think you can.
I’d tell him to pay attention to ordinary happiness. To notice the people who make you feel at ease. The conversations that don’t need impressing. The quiet evenings when nothing is wrong. These moments don’t announce themselves as important, but they will become anchors later on. They are the places you’ll return to when life feels unsteady.
I’d tell him that strength doesn’t always look like pushing through. Sometimes it looks like setting something down. Walking away. Saying no without explaining yourself. Letting something remain unfinished. Peace often comes not from fixing everything, but from choosing what is — and isn’t — worth carrying.
I’d also tell him to be gentler. With himself, first. He’ll be harder on himself than anyone else ever could be. He’ll replay conversations, second-guess decisions, and measure himself against standards no one else is using. I’d want him to know that kindness toward himself isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom learned early.
And I’d tell him to extend that same gentleness to others. Everyone you meet is carrying something you can’t see. Everyone is doing the best they can with what they know at the time. That includes you. Understanding doesn’t mean excusing everything — but it does mean softening your grip on judgment.
Most of all, I’d tell him this: you don’t have to earn your worth. You don’t have to prove yourself by being busy, successful or right. You are already enough — even on the days you don’t feel like it. Even on the days you doubt yourself. Even on the days you fall short.
Life will teach you these things anyway, in its own time. Through joy and disappointment. Through love and loss. Through moments you wish you could redo and others you’ll quietly carry with you forever.
But if I could tell my younger self anything, it would simply be this:
Take your time. Pay attention. Be kind. Say no and mean it. And trust that you’re learning — even when it doesn’t feel like it yet.
I think I am telling myself these things today, too. Maybe some of this resonates with you. Try imagining talking to your younger self. What would you say to him or her? Try this, take out a picture of yourself as a child.
Really see you in that picture. What were you thinking and feeling and really speak to the child you were then.
•••
Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare
