If I Had 10 Minutes With Her

A friend sent me some old photos recently.

At first, I smiled, the kind of soft smile that creeps in when you see something familiar and far away simultaneously. But as I kept looking, something deeper stirred.

The pictures were of me, about 10 years ago.

There I was... face bare and brave, eyes bright, full of something I didn’t even realize I carried back then: hope. Real, unshaken, unstoppable hope.

She looked so alive. So vibrant. So unbothered. So full of dreams she hadn’t yet doubted. So untouched by the weight that life would eventually teach her to carry.

And for a moment, I couldn’t help but whisper, “If I had just 10 minutes with her… what would I say?”

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I think, first, I’d hold her face in my hands. I wouldn’t rush. I’d take a deep breath and look into those wide, wonder-filled eyes, before time had touched them, before disappointment had made them cautious.

And I’d say, “You are not too much. You’re not too soft. You don’t need to become harder to survive, just wiser.”

I’d tell her that not everyone who says “I love you” means it, and not everyone who leaves is a loss. I’d tell her that her voice matters, especially when it trembles. That silence isn’t always peace, and staying quiet to keep the peace often creates wars inside.

I’d tell her that one day, she’ll cry for reasons she can’t explain, but she’ll laugh again too, in deeper ways than she thought possible.

And I’d warn her gently: Some people will hurt you simply because they’re hurting. But their pain is not your fault to carry, or your job to fix.

I’d tell her to take more pictures, not for the likes, but for the memories. To dance without needing a reason. To stop apologizing for loving loudly.

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If I had 10 minutes with her, I’d thank her too.

For being so brave with her joy. For waking up every day and dreaming in full color. For trusting people, even when she didn’t know how it would end. For giving everything her whole heart, even when it didn’t come back whole.

Because truth be told, she became me. And I needed her.

I needed that version of myself to believe without filters. To take chances. To wear hope like perfume. To be so full of life it scared people who had forgotten how to live.

She didn’t know it, but she gave me roots. So even when I bent under storms—I didn’t break. Even when life hardened me, I still remembered how softness once felt.

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And maybe, just before time ran out, I’d hug her tight and whisper one last thing:

“Life won’t always go the way you hoped, but it will shape you. And years from now, you’ll be proud. Not because everything worked out… But because you did. You’ll survive things you never saw coming. You’ll rebuild yourself again and again. And you’ll look back, like I am now… and smile at how far you’ve come.”

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Those pictures reminded me that our past selves never truly leave. They live in us, in our laughter, in our scars, in the way we keep going.

If I could go back for just 10 minutes, I’d tell her everything. But maybe… just maybe, she already knew.

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