Letter to Younger Self: Stay soft, but learn when to burn bridges

Every scar has a story. “Letter to My Younger Self” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who've walked winding roads—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone still figuring it out. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how setbacks shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From nurturing curiosity to embracing mentorship, each piece is a tribute to growth through lived experience.

Wanjiku Marge Wanjohi a pan-Africanist, a proponent of gender equality, and an enthusiast of logic pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self.

Dear Younger Self

I have written many things in my life letters to friends, emails to colleagues, papers for broader industry audiences. Somehow, writing to you feels the most daunting.

It is daunting for several reasons.

Firstly, you are the version of me that has no scepticism—and I would like to keep you that way.

Secondly, you are the version of me whose refusal to settlis resolute. You have very little tolerance for mediocrity. Funny—you are me. Yet here I am, hoping you think highly of me. Hoping I am still worthy of sitting in your very uncompromising spirit.

So let us make a truce.

For the next couple of words, we sit with each other. I will speak to you about the time that now sits between us—and what it has quietly taught me. You will listen. Not interrupting. Not rushing ahead. Just…listen.

That kind of space has is now something of a luxury where I am.

In return, I will speak with care. I have the foresight you do not—and I will try not to abuse it. This is not a place for judgement. And before you get any ideas—I am not telling you these things so you can rewrite history.

That is the difference between you and I.

You are obsessed with perfection. I do not pump water up hills. I do my best—and then I accept what is.

I am writing to you at a time when technology is just beginning to stretch its limbs. Like many people in your early twenties, you are rushing to pick up the newest smartphone, skimming the world through this newfound connectivity.

It is exciting, isn’t it?

Do me a favour—do not trip over yourself running there just yet. Savour the last bits of silence and individuality that remain. Soon enough, everyone on the internet will begin to look suspiciously alike. People  will begin curating their lives on social media—competitively presenting their preferences as universal truths. Where I am, there has been an overwhelming influx of knowledge. You would imagine that with humans learning more about shared challenges, there would be a little more grace.

That, sadly, is not the case.

As I write to you, the world is more polarised than it has ever been. I once read that we are the most advanced generation to have ever occupied the earth.

You cannot tell. Not in the divisive rhetoric that surrounds us. Not in the way we so confidently divide.

I can almost hear your question forming already: What can I do?

At your level, it is simple—be kind as your path unfolds. It sounds simple because it fits neatly into two words. It is anything but simple. There will be days when no kindness is extended to you. Days when you are pouring from an empty barrel. Even then—it will be worth it. There is real value in connecting to the next human being simply because they are. It is a shared joy—like those doughnuts you have with your black coffee before class. Difficult to explain, but stubbornly—it is there.

Speaking of which…black coffee? How very dull. 

While I am not proud of your caffeinated choices, I am incredibly proud of your social fabric. I have carried forward your intentionality in building meaningful connections with the people you love.

You were onto something.

Very little compares to walking into a restaurant on a bad day and spotting one of your people waving at you from across a crowded room. It reminds you that you are loved. That you are wanted. That you belong. 

Now, I must be the bearer of some news. Not bad news—just…news.

Half of the people you now call friends will one day become strangers. Familiar strangers. People whose faces you recognise, whose names sit comfortably on your tongue, but whose lives you no longer know. You will exchange polite greetings. You will say, “Let’s do coffee sometime,” and both of you will understand  that you won’t.

Do not be sad. You do not hate each other. You simply evolved differently. Sometimes, you both try to stay. But life has a way of pulling people in different directions anyway. What did I tell you about pumping water up hills? Do not. This will be difficult to reconcile—especially with the little notes you pass now, signed “friends forever.”

But here is the other side: You will build new connections. In boardrooms. At the gym. In coffee shops. You know how you are.

There are many things to look forward to on this side of time. One of them is your growing ability to detach from expectations that do not serve you—or the people you love.

Your discernment becomes sharper. Quieter. But sharper.

Now—I need you to do me another favour. I recognise that it is audacious to make requests from this end—especially since no other versions of me did that. You were allowed to unfold as you pleased.

Bear with me.

Start burning bridges much sooner than you plan to.

It is an art. One that needs honing. Crafting. Like most things worth knowing—it gets better with time.

Do you remember that scene from Waiting to Exhale where Bernadine burns the car and watches her demure personality go up in flames with it? The end of unnecessary exhibitions of patience.

Do that. Do it often. Do it necessarily.

Burn bridges with selfish people. Burn bridges with unjust people. Burn bridges with unkind people. Burn bridges with people who put pineapples on their pizza.

Actually—no. Forgive that last group. I got carried away.

But you see my point.

Burning bridges is not about quantity—it is about quality. Do it well. Do not leave planks behind for people to tiptoe back into your life. Let it burn long enough that return stops being an option.

I do not want to be too prescriptive. I would like to give you a fair chance to live.

So I will leave you with what is necessary.

You will always be with yourself. Protect your ability to look yourself in the eye without flinching. Do not dishonour yourself—your morality, your values, your relationship with God. That is a betrayal far more difficult to return from.

You will realise soon enough that the world has pre-determined ideologies about how a woman’s life should unfold. In these ideologies, a woman is never allowed to be too much of anything.

If you put effort into how you look—you will be “idle,” a “bimbo.” If you do not—you will be “unfeminine.”

If you speak boldly—you will be “crass.” If you do not—you will be a “walkover.”

If you stay home—you will be compared to women who are “doing more.” If you build a career—you will be “too ambitious.”

It is a game you lost before you began.

So do not play it.

The statement “a woman should be” is none of your business.

Chart your own path—because there are few phrases more useless than those four words.

Everyone has a story worth sharing. If you’ve ever wished you could talk to your younger self—with wisdom, forgiveness, or clarity—we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might just be the encouragement someone else needs today. You may remain anonymous if preferred, but your truth matters. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experience. Join us in building a collection of life’s hard-earned lessons and gentle reminders.

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