What Happened When We Asked Strangers to Write a Letter to Their Younger Self
We showed up to Montclair State University with a table, some colorful sticky notes, and one simple question:
"What do you wish your younger self knew?"
What happened next was something we didn't fully expect — even though we planned it.
The board filled up.
One by one, people stopped. They picked up a marker. They thought for a moment. And then they wrote.
What people wrote on the board ↓
By the end of the day the board was covered. Completely. In every color. In every kind of handwriting. From every kind of person.
Even Roxy — Montclair State's beloved mascot — stopped by, wrote her own letter, and helped bring other students over to the table.
Roxy stopped by the table, wrote her own letter, and helped bring other students over too.
Not everyone was ready. And that was okay.
Some people walked past. Some paused, looked at the board, and kept moving. A few said their inner child felt too far away. Too long ago.
And honestly? That response said just as much as the letters on the board. When we've been through things — really been through things — sometimes the easiest thing to do is check out from the younger version of ourselves. To put distance between who we were and who we are now.
But here's what I've learned from years of working with young people and from my own journey: that chapter doesn't close just because you stop reading it.
By the end of the event the board was completely covered — every color, every kind of handwriting, every kind of person.
Your letter doesn't have to be sad.
This is the thing I want every person who walked past that board to hear.
Writing to your younger self doesn't have to be heavy. It doesn't have to be about trauma. It doesn't have to start with "I wish you had known" or "I'm sorry you went through."
It can just as easily say — girl, you were already that one.
It can say — I love your spunk. I love how you questioned everything. I love how you spoke up when nobody else would. I love your bubbly personality and the way you showed up in rooms that weren't ready for you.
"Honoring your younger self doesn't always mean grieving her. Sometimes it means celebrating her. Thanking her. Reminding her that she was already something before the world got a chance to tell her otherwise."
What today reminded me about this work.
I set up that table to introduce people to Becoming Her Within — a leadership and emotional wellness program I created for teen girls ages 13–17.
But what today reminded me is that the work doesn't just belong to teenagers. Every adult who stopped at that board was once a young person who needed this. Some of them got it. Many of them didn't. And you could feel both of those things in the words they left behind.
That's why I do this. Not just for the girls in the program. But for every woman who wishes someone had shown up for her when she was still becoming.
Ready to bring this kind of experience to your girls?
Becoming Her Within creates intentional, judgment free spaces exactly like this — for teen girls ages 13–17 in schools, youth organizations, and community programs.
