An Open Letter to Twentysomethings
Hello, dear ones.
I see you there. Feeling insecure. Doubting yourself. Looking to boys or men or friends or achievements—or perhaps all the above—for validation.
I see you trying to figure yourself out. Trying to find your “place.” Trying to figure out what category you fit into. Trying to be enough. Trying not to be too much.
I see you striving to be seen. I see you putting tons of energy into trying to feel comfortable in your own skin, and then getting the wind casually knocked from your sails by a careless word.
I see you longing for attention. Affection. Romance. Pursuit. Aching to be known. Feeling inadequate when the “right” kind of person just never seems to be drawn to you.
I see you. I feel those aches as if they were my own, because they were my own for so many years.
Here’s what I’m desperate for you to know, dear ones with so many shining days before you:
You are not defined by anyone’s opinion of you.
Not anyone’s. Not your boyfriend’s. Not your mother’s. Not your sister’s. Not your boss’s. Not your professor’s. No one’s.
You are defined only by Jesus, and he loves you perfectly and completely, just as you are. Nothing you do can cause him to love you more, and nothing you do can cause him to love you less. Not one thing.
You are altogether lovely.
You are beautiful. Unique. Perfectly imperfect. Your body is amazing, neither disgusting nor an involuntarily seductive lust machine. Your glorious body is a creation of the Lord. No one should be allowed to make you feel shame.
The qualities that make you different are your most interesting, and an interesting woman is always a lovely woman. The comparison game is hot garbage, and (spoiler alert) nobody wins. Your beauty doesn’t take away from anyone else’s beauty, and someone else’s beauty, no matter how glorious, doesn’t lessen your own by even one iota. One day your hair will start to turn gray and you’ll get stretch marks and you won’t fit into the same pants you wore in college, but with every new and squishy curve, you’ll feel more lovely than you ever have.
Do what makes you come alive.
Jesus didn’t give us the desires of our hearts only to force us into a role that makes us miserable. Don’t spend hours and days and months and years agonizing over your “purpose,” terrified of missing some uncracked holy code from God. That is no kind of abundant life. Do what makes you come alive. Create beauty. Love people. Show compassion. It’s likely that your purpose will be chillin’ at the apex of those four things.
Never stop using your big, beautiful brain.
You are smart.
I don’t care what kind of grades you got in high school or college. I don’t care what that guy you dated when you were eighteen told you. You are smart. You have a good, strong mind capable of remarkable things. It’s your greatest asset and the most gorgeous thing about you. Never stop flexing those brain cells. Become a sharply critical thinker. Devour books like cookie dough—with joy, vigor, and aplomb. At the same time, let yourself be proven wrong.
Getting older is magical.
I remember when turning thirty felt like it was a million years away. I’m ashamed to admit that in my twenties, thirty felt like some kind of dead end. Like I had to get all my excitement and “living” in before I got—gasp—too old.
Now I’m thirty-two, and it’s glorious. I have never felt more comfortable in my own skin than I do right now. I’ve never felt more in tune with my purpose than I do right now. I’ve never been happier than I am right now. Your best years are not behind you, dear ones. The best is yet to come. Life may be short, but it only gets sweeter.
More than anything else, sweet girls, know that you are loved—perfectly, completely, and extravagantly. Rest in that, and marvel at the wonderful women you are and will be.
is a writer, speaker, wife, and over-caffeinated toddler mom. After 10 years in the nonprofit world, she now writes full-time. You can find her on Scary Mommy, The Mighty, The Natural Parent, Parent Co, and Her View From Home. She loves Jesus, long walks on the beach, honey habañero lattes, and Zoloft. Her website is kimberlypoovey.com.
Photograph © Alex Holyoake, used with permission
