For years, a cream, marbled journal has sat collecting dust in the back of my drawer. On April 10, 2022, at the end of freshman year, you wrote me a letter contained in its pages, wide-eyed at the prospects of what a senior-year Yzabelle could have possibly accomplished.
And on April 10, 2025, I read it. I hope you don’t mind me making my response to you so public–yet a part of me thinks you’d be thrilled and the idea of being featured in the school newspaper.
The first question you asked me was how I feel about graduating. “Because right now, I’m not ready to ‘grow up,’” you wrote. “You have to be independent. You have to drive yourself places, you don’t have someone in the room right over obliged to take care of you. Are you scared? Are you relieved? Are you ready?”
I’d like to let you know that I think I am. You’d be surprised how much you find yourself growing into your independence. At your age, I’m sure being on your own seemed daunting, but now, it feels empowering. There’s always the fear of failure when you take your life into your own hands, but when you’re the one steering the wheel, all of your accomplishments feel so rewarding. You don’t know it yet, but you’ll grow into finding yourself through all of the niches and facets you go through in high school that truly develop your confidence in yourself. No matter how fearful you are of the future, trust me, you’ll grow into it.
As I read more of your letter, you asked me about my hobbies and interests, my extracurriculars and involvement. I never realized how starry-eyed you were just a few years ago. From being so amazed at the idea of being in Wind Ensemble to dreaming of being the Creative Writing Club captain to being so curious about what clubs I’d joined and what awards I’d won, you had so many hopes for me, so many hopes I actually fulfilled.
Your words made me reflect on my apathy towards it all, a tunnel vision I hadn’t realized I was trapped inside. I feel as though I’ve been worn down by my work for years, and as I’m approaching the finish line, sometimes I wish for nothing more than for it all to be over with.
Yet I read how excited you were for me and I remember why I did it all in the first place. I remember that this wish to help others, to create something greater than myself, to truly make a difference–that was the point of all of it, something I think I’ve forgotten over the years. You’ve helped me remember the intrinsic joy from everything I do, something I wish I’d maintained with me for longer than I have.
Nevertheless, I hope you can look at me and see everything you wish you’d become. I hope I’ve become the role model you always wish you had, I hope you’re so proud of everything we’ve done.
You ended your letter filled with fear. You wrote, “If you’re reading this… did everything turn out okay?” You were so worried about the what-ifs, the potentials and the unknown. Yet as I end this letter, I’m filled with so much pride.
Because sometimes, you just have to put trust in yourself–in us.
And I promise you, everything will be okay.
