20 Things I'd Tell My 20-Year-Old Self

I'm short, but I'm healthy, yeah...

I'm Vanessa—menopausal mama, writer, certified life coach, and creative communications strategist. I share honest reflections on creativity, connection, and finding joy and flow during midlife. Welcome. 🦋

Picture it—Pittsburgh. Summer. 1995.

I’m 20 and spending the summer on Carnegie Mellon University’s campus. I work as an Admissions Office tour guide and professional file sorter.

I listen to hours of mix tapes of Alanis, Bjork, The Cowboy Junkies, Tori Amos, and 10,000 Maniacs or the local AM alternative music station. I even pledged $25 because I want to support my music.

I’m taking a graphic design summer school class because I’m still trying to “find myself,” and a double major in professional writing and French isn’t enough for little overachiever moi.

I’ve recently cut my hair into a bob because the “Rachel” hairdo I was sporting earlier in the spring is too much for my thick hair to handle.

I’ve just finished my sophomore year, and it was a rollercoaster.

Good: I joined Kappa Alpha Theta sorority, moved into our sorority house, became the “House Manager,” and met whip-smart, funny, dynamic young women. Exactly what I needed, as our campus is about 75% male, and I crave a place to bloom and belong.

Devastating: A friend takes his life. I only knew him for three sweet months. We were supposed to go to my first sorority formal together. I still replay our last conversation and hug. I still have the sweater I was wearing that last time I saw him.

My heart’s been broken by the same boy 2.7 times.

I tell myself I know better.

But I’m only 20.

Summer in the sorority house is the best.

We watch “Days of Our Lives” on our work lunch breaks.

There’s an unfortunate incident with Nair hair removal cream.

Our rooms have the AC wall units cranked up, and we eat all of our meals in each other’s rooms because it’s too hot in the kitchen.

Late-night pizza orders, laughs, tears, swapping clothes and secrets, and trips to the mall in my 1991 tomato-red Saab fill my days.

Summer 1995. Photo by Barbara T. Mood—all me.

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And what it all comes down to is that everything’s gonna be fine…

Somehow, 30 years have gone by.

Summer 1995 sticks in my memory, always.

The music.

The clothes.

The people.

My oldest child turns 20 this month.

Summer 2025.

I was 30 when he was born.

10 years between the photo above and his birth.

This morning, I journaled 20 things I’d tell my 20-year-old self.

1. Your taste in music won’t change much.

2. Don’t follow all the rules.

3. You don’t need to have all the answers.

4. Not everyone will like you.

5. You won’t like everyone.

6. Maybe take a few more study breaks.

7. Study abroad.

8. Keep detailed journals.

9. Keep writing even when it feels hard.

10. Don’t rush grief.

11. Practice stress management.

12. Your body doesn’t need to be fixed or changed.

13. Wear whatever you want.

14. Learn from heartbreaks.

15. Take chances.

16. Take more naps.

17. You will meet some of your best friends, and they will be with you for decades.

18. It’s okay to get angry.

19. Be open, but don’t be a sponge.

20. You’re just getting started.

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‘Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is giving a peace sign…

I wrote this poem this past spring. It fits perfectly with my list and reflections.

Letter to My 20-Year-Old Self

I'm writing myself a letter
on paper torn from a college-ruled notebook,
pressing so hard down on the page, I snap the mechanical pencil tip.

I miss the 90s.

I tell 20-year-old me
that she's not too much
and she doesn't have to
always be brave and bound to stupid rules
she's always checking in her head.

It's her heart that matters.
Her heart that swells listening to Mazzy Star,
her full body sing-screams to Alanis,
wild dances to Bjork and midnight cries to The Cowboy Junkies.

I gently explain to her that she doesn't need to be a business major, an engineer, 
a computer scientist, or an architect.

She can just be creative
and her old-ass poetry professor couldn't possibly understand
her broken heart.

Keep writing.
Keep writing.
Keep writing.

I fold it up. 
Tightly.
And press it into her hand before the next class.

A penny for my thoughts.

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Exciting news!

I'm honored to be part of a beautiful new publication — The Zest of the Lemon: Volume 2 — featuring over 150 reflections and poems from more than 100 contributors around the globe, including two pieces from me.

This thoughtful volume is organized into three uplifting themes: Nature, Life & People, and Spirit.

If you're looking for something heartfelt and real, I invite you to take a look here.

Thanks for reading and supporting independent creatives. It means the world to us.

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What would you tell your 20-year-old self?

Write a list. Write a letter.

Reflect on how far you’ve come, friend.

Hugs and mix tapes,

Vanessa 🦋

P.S. Here’s an acoustic version of Jagged Little Pill is what I listen to while I wrote this post. It’s simply beautiful.