Your Younger Self Was Brilliant. She Still Is.

On grief, creativity, and what parenting takes from you before it gives you back to yourself

"I was just wondering... did I make something of myself?" — Beaches

If you've ever sat across from someone else's grief and recognized it as your own, this one's for you.

How brilliant was my younger self?

She led me here without answers. Delivered me to the woman I am today, guided entirely by intuition. She knew things I had forgotten. She held dreams I’m still discovering.

I’m sitting with an old friend. A colleague from another life. She’s fifteen years younger than me. She was a professional child actor. A show biz kid. I was just finding my stage legs back then.

Now she’s a mother.

And I see my reflection in her tears.

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The Grief In The Room

I’m rambling, as I do. Excited about some new idea, still that eight year old who used to direct the neighborhood kids in backyard plays. Some habits become careers. Some children never stop performing.

“We could gather all the almost-Broadway moms!” My voice rises with possibility. “The talent in this neighborhood alone. It could be magnificent!”

My enthusiasm crashes directly into her tears.

She’s grieving. Mourning the spotlight that could have been. Missing the applause that never came. The sliding doors she walked through and the ones she didn’t.

I know this pain. I’ve lived this loss. I’ve counted these roads not taken, measured these paths untraveled, dreamed these dreams deferred.

So I take her hand and let her cry.

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What Parenting Actually Does To An Artist

Twenty years of serving someone else’s dreams. Twenty years of putting yourself aside. Twenty years of finding strength you didn’t know you had.

Parenting demands discipline. It requires a shit ton of grit and a f*ck ton of faith. It consumes patience. It devours luck. It drains bank accounts. It takes everything you have.

It kills you slowly.

It rebuilds you completely.

These are not things you can explain to someone who hasn’t lived them. Some lessons can’t be shared. Some wisdom has to be earned. Some paths have to be walked alone, while making chicken nuggets at 4:20 PM, while watching bedtime approach at 6:30, while quietly remembering you’re still an artist underneath all of it.

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I look at her and I want to say: this slow walk might save you. This long journey might be exactly what your voice needs to deepen into something you couldn’t have made at 25. The winding path might lead you somewhere culture’s gates never would have.

Your younger self is still brilliant.

She’s still lighting the way.

She’s still leading you home.

The stage will wait. The stories will deepen. The voice will strengthen.

The artist will emerge. She always does.

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