If I Had 10 Minutes with My Younger Self.

If I had just 10 minutes with my younger self, I honestly don't think I'd try to sound too wise. I wouldn't waste time trying to give a TED Talk or lecture him into a perfect future. I think I'd just sit beside him, take a breath, and talk like an older brother who’s seen a bit more, felt a bit deeper, and maybe bled a few times from life’s surprises.

First, I’d look at him not in a rushed way, but really look. That younger me. Still figuring things out. Still feeling like he has to prove something to everyone. Still thinking being soft means being weak. I’d look him in the eye and say, “You’re doing better than you think.”

I'd start there because I remember how much he needed to hear that. Back then, everything felt like a test. Like one wrong move could ruin everything. I'd tell him that it’s okay not to have all the answers. That confusion doesn’t mean you’re broken it just means you’re human.

Then I’d probably say, “You’re allowed to slow down.” Because God knows how many nights he stayed up overthinking, worrying if he was enough, comparing himself to people who didn’t even know he existed. I'd remind him that peace doesn't always come from doing more or achieving more. Sometimes, it comes from just learning to sit with yourself without judgment.

Would I give him advice? Sure, but not too much. He doesn’t need a blueprint. He just needs to feel seen. But I'd still drop a few truths I wish someone had told me earlier.

“Don’t chase approval,” I’d say. “It’s a moving target. One minute they love you, the next they forget your name. So live in a way that feels real to you. Wear what you like. Speak how you speak. Do things that feel like you.”

And I’d gently tell him that some people will leave. Some friendships will fade. Some people you thought would always be around won’t be. Not because you failed. Not because you weren’t good enough. But because that’s how life moves. Letting go isn’t weakness. It’s part of growth. And when it hurts? Let it. You’re not made of stone.

I’d also tell him to love, but to love himself too. I know he gives so much to people, always trying to show he’s loyal and good. I’d remind him that you can’t pour from an empty cup. If you keep giving without taking care of yourself, you’ll burn out, quietly, and no one will know until it’s too late.

Would I give him warnings? Yeah, one or two. I’d say, “Not everyone around you wants the best for you. Watch how people treat you when you’re not useful to them. That’s the truth of who they are.” But I wouldn’t turn him paranoid. Just aware.

Maybe I’d tell him to write more. Not for grades or assignments but for himself. To journal his confusion, his dreams, his heartbreak. One day, those scribbles might help him make sense of things. Maybe they’ll even help someone else.

And then, as time ticks down, I’d stop talking. I think I'd just sit there with him in silence. Let it be a moment, not a lesson. He’d probably be looking at me like, “Are you really me?” And I’d nod. Not because I’m the best version of him, but because I’m still growing too.

Before I go, I’d look him straight in the eyes and say something simple, something real: “You make it. Not perfectly, not without scars. But you make it. You’re stronger than you know. And the world, with all its madness, still has room for someone like you.”

And I’d leave him with that. No pressure. No promises. Just the truth that even when things feel uncertain, he’s going to be alright. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, yes. He will be more than okay.