Dear kids,
A few things happened last week that made me sit down and write this for you.
I was in New York, carrying three bags, one iced americano, and absolutely zero dignity. I tripped over someone’s suitcase on the subway stairs, and dropped my phone screen-first onto the sidewalk. It lit up just in time for me to see an email notification:
“Your background check has been submitted.”
And for a split second, I panicked.
Like – oh no, are they gonna find out about that one safety management class I got a C in college? The time I accidentally took the express train to the Bronx and cried in a corner deli?!
And then I laughed. Out loud.
Because: no one cares. Not like that. Not the way we think they do.
Then, a few days later, I visited Columbia – the one I mastered out of when I left the PhD program. I thought it might feel awkward, or like I’d have to explain myself. But instead… people welcomed me. We hugged. We talked. We even started working on a new project together. It felt full circle in a way I wasn’t expecting.
And I realized something.
There was a time I really thought leaving that program meant I had failed. I had gotten a conditional pass on my qualifying exam, protected a thesis I believed in all the way till the end, and eventually walked away – not because I couldn’t finish, but because I didn’t want to keep forcing something I no longer loved. I wasn’t patient, I wasn’t passionate anymore. And that was scary to admit.
But now, looking back, I see how that choice – what felt like a step back – actually opened doors for me. Big ones. Things changed quickly after that. I grew. I built something new. I made space for a version of myself I didn’t even know existed yet.
And that’s what got me thinking – about this thing they used to tell us when we were kids.
You know, that big scary concept of a “permanent record.”
Like there was some magical, invisible file where every mistake, every bad grade, every weird decision would be written down and used against you forever.
Let me just say it now, with full confidence:
That’s a myth. A total, well-intentioned, anxiety-inducing myth.
No one is pulling up your third-grade meltdown or the time you cried because a pigeon got too close. There’s no dusty folder tracking how many times you failed a quiz or got caught skipping PE.
I know this because – I believed in it too.
I really thought there was an invisible clipboard somewhere, tallying up every C+, every weird outfit, every bad haircut. (There were a lot of those, by the way. Your grandparents were firmly anti-long-hair for girls – too fussy, too time-consuming. They believed that tying up my hair was time better spent solving math problems or learning English.)
So I played it safe.
I color-coded my notes. I kept my hair short (cried every time they cut my hair). I followed the rules. I said “bless you” even when I didn’t mean it.
I got really, really good at doing what I was told.
And what did all that “perfect” get me? Anxiety. Hair loss.
And a 4.0 GPA that no one, not once, has ever brought up at a party.
Here’s what I’ve learned since:
Real life doesn’t reward neatness.
It rewards curiosity. Stumbles. Loud ideas. Risk.
It rewards the people who do dumb things with full hearts and bad judgment – and come back with stories worth telling.
I used to imagine my own permanent record as some dramatic report card of shame:
“Late assignment. Some Cs.
Tongue-tied in front of crush.”
But none of that stuck.
What did stick were the moments I dared something.
The things I tried before I was ready.
The risks I took that turned out to be detours into better versions of myself.
So here’s what I want for you:
Not a tidy life. A vivid one.
A life with color and cracks and laughter and lessons. A life with meaning – not just “success.”
But before you run off and make a beautiful mess of things, we do need to go over a few basic rules.
Not a lot. Just the ones that matter:
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Don’t hurt people. Not their hearts, not their peace, not their snacks.
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Don’t break rules/laws you don’t understand. Jail is not the vibe we’re going for.
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Don’t mess up someone’s joy just to prove a point.
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And if you mess up? Own it. Apologize sincerely. Apologize like a grown-up. Then grow up some more.
If you’re looking for permission to screw up gloriously – this is it.
But please, do it with a conscience.
Take your detours, your misadventures, your late-night what-were-you-thinking moments—but make sure no one gets hurt in the process. Especially not you.
Don’t do anything that ends with the phrase, “well, technically it wasn’t illegal…”
If you have to say that out loud? Just don’t.
Because real freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want.
It’s about choosing your path while respecting the fact that we’re all walking next to someone else.
If your story leaves someone else bleeding – it’s not a story worth telling.
That’s not brave. That’s not cool. That’s just selfish.
And I know – that’s not who you are.
You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re chaotic – but with a conscience.
So go be messy.
But be mindful.
Make mistakes that are funny, not felonies.
Leave people better, not bruised.
Live the kind of life that makes you proud to tell the whole truth when someone asks how you got here.
Now that we’re clear – let’s goooo.
1. May you occasionally choose wonder over routine – and be better for it.
Maybe you’ll skip something you were “supposed” to do – not out of laziness, but because something in your gut told you to follow a different path that day. Maybe you’ll find yourself deep in the woods, learning to cook over fire, picking wild berries, or finally understanding which mushrooms are safe and which will make you see dragons. Maybe you’ll sit with someone whose life looks nothing like yours, and hear a story you’ll never forget. Let the moment change you – but always come back with gratitude, responsibility, and a good story to tell.
2. May you challenge what doesn’t sit right – with respect and intention.
If someone tells you your ideas are too big, too soft, too idealistic – I hope you trust your voice anyway. Build something with heart. Question gently. Speak clearly. Disagree without destroying. You can stand your ground without stepping on someone else’s. That’s strength.
3. May you follow spontaneity, not recklessness.
If you ever find yourself dancing in a city you hadn’t planned to visit, surrounded by music and kind strangers – enjoy it. Let joy find you. Just remember to be safe. Call when you get home. Stay aware of your surroundings. Carry yourself with both wonder and wisdom.
4. May you love bravely – and part kindly.
Some love stories won’t last. That’s okay. What matters is how you show up, and how you leave. Love with openness, but never forget your boundaries. Protect your heart, your body, your time. Care deeply, but don’t lose yourself inside someone else. And if it ever ends – let it end gently. No ghosting. We do closure in this family. We speak honestly, leave with kindness, and walk away whole.
5. May you know when something no longer serves you – and leave with dignity.
One day, you may walk away from a job, a place, or a role that once fit but no longer does. That doesn’t make you flaky – it means you’re growing. If you ever get let go for coloring outside the lines, I hope you walk out with grace and the certainty that your value isn’t tied to someone else’s approval.
6. May you fail – and take full responsibility.
Failure is not the enemy. Avoiding it at all costs is. So try. Risk it. And if it goes wrong? Own it. Laugh when you can. Learn when you must. Say sorry when it’s needed. But never stop showing up.
7. May you create something uniquely yours – then stand behind it.
Make things. Weird things. Brave things. Businesses, books, ideas. Even if they don’t make sense to everyone. Share them not to impress, but to express. And if someone critiques them, listen with humility – not insecurity. You can be proud without being loud.
8. May you find joy in stillness – and learn that you don’t have to earn rest.
Not every chapter has to be about growth or grit. Some days, it’s enough to drink tea by a window, to reread a favorite book, to be soft and still and let the world move without you for a while. Learn to rest – not as a reward, but as a right. Quiet moments are where clarity lives, and sometimes, doing “nothing” is how you find your way back to yourself.
Why do I want all this for you?
Because it’s how you become you.
Mess is the proof that you tried.
That you cared enough to risk looking silly.
That you had a weird idea and gave it a shot.
That you lived.
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Choosing wonder over routine → Teaches you to follow your instincts, trust the unknown, and find magic in the detour (plus, how to spot safe mushrooms – critical skill).
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Challenging the system kindly → Reminds you to think for yourself, question what doesn’t feel right, and still leave people feeling seen—not stepped on.
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Unplanned nights in unfamiliar cities → Show you that the best memories often begin with “this wasn’t supposed to happen…”
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Loving and leaving with grace → Teach you that real love isn’t about forever – it’s about how gently you hold someone while you have them, and how kindly you let go.
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Outgrowing what no longer fits → Helps you recognize your worth – and walk away when it’s time, not just when it’s easy.
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Failing and showing up anyway → Builds a kind of confidence that no success ever could. You learn that being seen trying is braver than being seen perfect.
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Creating something strange and yours → Teaches you to stand behind your ideas with pride, even when no one claps (yet).
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Resting without guilt → Shows you that you’re not a machine. Your worth isn’t tied to productivity. Rest is resistance, and softness is strength.
Just remember (been telling this million times), the kind of mess worth making never leaves anyone else with the cleanup. Don’t lie, don’t break what you can’t fix, and if you hurt someone – say sorry like you mean it, and do better.
Final thoughts from your Chill Mom Who Has Lived:
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Take your vitamins. More vitamins. Most vitamins.
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Wear sunscreen. But also, let your scars show. They’re cool.
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Be kind to the janitor. Also the barista. Also the weird kid sitting alone. Also employees. So… everyone.
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Don’t break hearts or bones or trust – not even your own.
And remember: Your real permanent record is written in stories, not scores.
I’ll love you through it all – every glorious mess, every triumph, every “what were you thinking?”
And if you ever wake up on a park bench in Prague holding a trombone and no memory of how you got there… just text me one emoji: 🐐
I’ll know what it means.
With endless love,
Mom
