Messy Hair, Cozy Beanies, and a Steady Thread
Seeing yourself side by side with your younger self is surreal—especially when the years in between have included a lot of life. On the left: me at 20—shaggy-haired, beanie-wearing, grin stretched wide with untested joy. On the right: me at 39, still shaggy-haired, still in a beanie, still smiling—but now with a joy that’s quieter and steadier.
At 20, the thread thrummed with ‘could-be’s. I couldn’t yet see how it would weave through my life, but that’s what made it incredible. My younger self was braver than she realized, harsh in ways I’ve softened, and tender in ways I’ve learned to protect. That thread carried me, growing stronger and never breaking.
The slightly unkempt hair felt deliberate then, and the beanie was a quirky accessory for midnight snacks and sprawling conversations about life. At 39, it weaves ‘what-is’—not chasing light, but building lanterns. The chaotic hair? I’ve stopped pretending it’s a choice. The beanie? It’s more for keeping warm while swigging a can of Diet Pepsi than quirky style.
Aging’s ache: realizing young-you carried futures she’d survive but never inhabit. Its pride: she ferried you here—her joy now your bedrock. There’s an ache in looking at the 20-year-old me and realizing how unformed she was—how much she didn’t know about what was coming. But there’s also pride. She carried me here, and I can see how much of her joy remains, even if it looks different now.
So much of me is still the same. In current me, the beanie is different and the hair is grayer. Gravitas weights my smile now—not burden, but ballast young-me mistook for chains. But the thread? That’s the constant. At 20, it pulled me through late-night debates about books I hadn’t read yet and all-consuming relationships I thought would last forever. At 39, it wraps around what I care for most—building a home, caring for my community. What once felt like a single strand—thin but unbreakable—has become a tapestry, woven with losses and joys and everything in between.
These photos feel like a mirror of continuity—a reminder that everything changes. I see the 20-year-old me and want to tell her she doesn’t have to prove so much, that it’s okay to not know yet. In response, I think she’d look at both of us together and smile—shaggy hair, beanie, and all.
And the thread? It’s still taut with possibility.