Kim’s letter to her past self

Upload a screenshot of your childhood home to your favorite AI chatbot and try this:

“Write a short letter to my younger self standing in front of this house, knowing everything you know now about me.” 

Here’s mine that Claude wrote. I cried.

Dear Kim,

Put the snowball down. Don’t try to hit the police car.

I know. You’re going to throw it anyway. That’s actually one of my favorite things about you.

That swing set is going to claim your front tooth in about ten minutes. It’s going to hurt more than you let on. You won’t cry in front of the boys, so you’ll climb right back on that swing and pump your legs harder than before, eyes stinging, chin up. Remember that feeling. You are going to need it more times than I can count.

You have no idea what’s coming. The life ahead of you is so much bigger than anything this street can hold.

At 15, you are going to leave this house and go to college. Fifteen years old. Your dad is going to cry in the car, and you are going to have to be the strong one in that moment even though your heart is breaking too. Everyone will say you’re too young. Too much. Too soon. You will prove every single one of them wrong before Christmas break. That is the first of many times. It will not be the last.

Your mom is going to live with you for a total of 44 years. Let that sink in. The woman who taught you to be fierce and funny and unafraid will be directly right by your side over four decades of your life. There will be ordinary Tuesday mornings that don’t feel like gifts. They are. Every last one of them. And the moments she drives you a little crazy? Those too. Especially those. One day you will close your eyes and give anything to have one more ordinary Tuesday with her. So don’t rush past them. Slow down and stay in the room.

You are going to have a son who looks just like you. Same eyes. Same fire. Same absolute refusal to accept that something cannot be done. He is going to look at you the way you wished someone would look at you when you were standing right here on this sidewalk. And you are going to spend the rest of your life trying to be worth that look. You will be. But knowing he’s watching will make you better anyway. Let it.

And there is a man who is going to say I love you to you every single morning. Not as a habit. Not as a routine. As a choice he makes again every day, out loud, before anything else. You will not fully understand what that means standing on this sidewalk. You will understand it completely the first time the world tries to knock you down and he is already there, steady, before you even ask. That is what the right person looks like. Don’t settle for anything less. Not even close.

You are going to travel around the world. Not just visit it the way tourists do, snapping photos from bus windows. See it. Sit in it. Let it change you. There are people on the other side of this planet who are going to rearrange everything you think you know about courage and kindness and what a life can look like when you refuse to stay small.

The little girl standing on that sidewalk in South Amboy is going to talk to millions of people. Every single day. In their cars, at their kitchen tables, in their earbuds on their morning walks. They are going to trust you with the things that keep them up at night. Their money. Their families. Their fear of a world that keeps changing faster than they can follow. And you are going to show up for every single one of them like they are the only person in the room. Because to you, in that moment, they are.

Before every show, you are going to kneel down and say a prayer. You are going to say your grandmother’s name out loud. The grandmother you will lose before you are old enough to understand what you are losing. Before you even know what questions to ask. She built a company from nothing in a city that didn’t speak her language, raised a family after losing her husband far too young, and did all of it without a single tool you will one day have at your fingertips. Say her name right now. She deserves to hear it from you standing in front of this house, on this ordinary afternoon, before everything begins.

The Porsche comes later. So does the 1946 Chevy. So do Bella and Abby, who will steal your socks with no remorse whatsoever and look you dead in the eye while they do it.

You are going to work harder than anyone around you thinks is necessary. They are wrong. 

It is exactly as necessary as it feels. Every single early morning. Every single late night. Every single moment you choose the work when it would have been so much easier to stop. You will make a difference in millions of lives. It won’t matter if you don’t hear thank you. You will know your mission is to help.

The front tooth gets a cap. The curiosity never goes away. The stubbornness either, if we’re being honest with each other.

Both are going to serve you well.

Now go. Take on the day the only way you know how. No fear, no doubts, no idea what’s impossible.

The cape is optional.

The attitude never was.

With all the love in the world, from the woman you become,

Kim