10 years isn’t even half of my life…
First of all, dear, the remnants of your accent will be gone within the year, and then you’ll sound like everyone else. You’ll learn that tekkies are called sneakers and no one calls it a dust bin. I promise.
The year you turn thirteen is going to shatter you. Just before Christmas, you’ll find out you’re moving, you’ll see your father cry for the first time, and you’ll lie on your bed sobbing to your best friend for hours. You’ll leave in June – it’ll be a year before you see the mountains, the people, and the town that you called home for 11 years. And the boy you fancied yourself in love with? He’ll tell you he loves you when you go back to visit, then he’ll get your best friend pregnant.
But don’t worry – after you visit that once, you won’t again. Well, you haven’t by the time you’ve turned 17 anyway. Everything about that place will always hold a special place in your heart, but it will cease to consume you.
In eighth grade, you’ll join yearbook – it will be the most trying and rewarding thing you’ve ever done. I don’t know what would have happened had you not chosen to dedicate ridiculous amounts of your time to an underrated, 400-page, stressful monolith of a document, but I do know you wouldn’t have realised that your heart lies in writing and editing.
And oh, high school. I don’t know that there is a single most fun thing that goes on – it will be a series of hilarious moments and unforgettable, probably regrettable, events (punctuated by heartbreaks and high stress and too many late nights). You’ll learn more about yourself than you probably wanted to know yet you will never figure it all out.
You’ll also finally get to go back and visit the country in which you were born. That will be the shortest and most wonderful month of your life.
Anyway, get ready baby. 10 years is not as long as it seems, so please try and hold onto what you can. Just never let it hold you back.