if i could offer advice to my twenty-one year-old self, i'd hesitate. not because i'm void of wisdom– but because your story needs to be written by your hand, not edited by mine. unless your life's on the line, i'll rarely interfere. suffering, after all, is the thread that sews wisdom in the seams of you're becoming. how else will you learn to feel the sharp edges– of disappointment, heartbreak, of grief, self-betrayal or disillusionment, of resentment dressed up as righteousness, or longing dressed up as love? if i did, interfere that is, i'd block the pathway to your gut– a lifelong partner willing to stand with you in the gray. so no, i won’t stop you from walking straight into those electric fences. the ones that jolt you off-path. the ones that turn yellow flags into bright, burning red. even if you walk into them twice. you will need to be both the