If I Could Talk to the Boy I Used to Be

What if you could go back in time and have a real conversation with your younger self?

Not advice shouted through a motivational poster.
Not warnings yelled from the future.
A real conversation. Face to face.

I know exactly where I’d meet him.

Not a playground. I didn’t really do playgrounds.
Somewhere open. Concrete nearby. A place where you learn to watch before you learn to play.

He’s about nine.
That’s when things start shifting.
When you stop being protected by childhood and start being tested by the world.

I’m older. Worn in. Standing where I belong.

He looks at me the way kids look at adults they don’t trust yet curious, alert, already measuring distance.

I don’t rush it.

“Boy,” I say.

He knows.
You always recognize yourself.

I don’t tell him how hard it’s going to get.
Life will handle that part.

I tell him the things that would’ve changed how he carried it.

“Nothing is wrong with you,” I say first.
“And not everything that hurts you is your fault.”

That one lands heavy.

“You’re going to think you’re bad at life because life keeps putting you in bad situations,” I tell him.
“Don’t confuse the two. Environment can lie to you.”

I let that breathe.

“You’re going to survive a lot,” I say.
“Don’t mistake survival for identity. Survival is a response. Character is a choice you make later, when you finally have room to breathe.”

He’s listening now. Still. Focused.

“You feel things early,” I tell him.
“That doesn’t make you weak. It means your awareness showed up before safety did.”

I don’t promise him success.
I don’t promise him peace.

I give him posture.

“When things get loud inside you,” I say, “don’t run faster. Stand straighter. Learn to watch before you react. Control yourself before you try to control outcomes.”

He looks at my hands. They’re steady.

“What do I get?” he asks.

Not comfort.
Not shortcuts.

“Time,” I tell him.
“Time you won’t waste thinking you’re broken.”

That’s when he nods just once.
The kind of nod you give when you don’t fully understand yet, but you trust the weight of the words.

Then the moment passes.

Here’s the truth most people miss:

I wouldn’t go back to save him.
I’d go back to stop blaming him.

Because once you forgive the kid who did his best with what he had,
the climb stops feeling like punishment
and starts feeling like purpose.

That’s the conversation I’d have.

And that’s why I keep climbing.