Little Ryan

When I think about success in life, there’s one question I always ask myself: Would little Ryan be proud?

I’ve been journaling my whole life, and every so often I like to look back at what little Ryan was thinking or going through. In most of my early entries, I breeze past the traumatic things with a simple, “and that made me sad :(” and then I follow it by dreaming about my future.

Little Ryan was optimistic and she was for so many years. She was a shoot-for-the-stars kind of girl — excited, adventurous, unwilling to settle for anything less than extraordinary.

For a long time, I’d read her words each year and still see myself in them. She felt like a guardian from the past, wistfully guiding me along a journey she believed I deserved. Her voice was steady. Certain. She trusted the future completely—she trusted me.

But as I’ve grown older, that connection has slowly faded. Now when I read her words, it feels like I’ve walked so far away from her that I’ll never find her again—like her voice is echoing from somewhere I can’t reach. Like one day, her words will simply dissolve into time.

I know I’m not old. I know my life doesn’t suck. There are still so many wonders left to be discovered. But I’ve drifted far from many of the things I once wanted. And sometimes it feels like she was the best part of me—and she’s gone.