Sometimes I wish I could go back and tell my sixteen year old self that it does get better. That I will be happy with how I look, I will always find people who want to hang around with me, and I will get a boyfriend (and then an even better one). That some day I’ll be confident enough to make new friends at parties, to travel on my own, and to stand up and make a speech in front of a crowd of people.
I wish that I could travel back in time to when I was learning to drive and say: “Not only will you be able to do this, you’ll actually enjoy it.”
To when I was on my knees in the bathroom, crying and trying in desperation to make myself throw up, and tell myself that one day I’ll just be able to eat and appreciate food as nourishment and that it’ll be okay.
To when I was first introduced to Twitter and told to be the voice of an organisation I’d only just started working for, and explain that I’d eventually be running training sessions, writing strategies and introduced as a “our resident social media guru”.
To when I was on my first jog and struggling to keep going for even thirty seconds, that in a while I’d complete a 10km race in under an hour.
Sometimes progress is so slow you don’t even notice it, but it is there. Only when you look back and remember what you were like five or ten years ago do you remember how much you’ve grown and how much you’ve learnt.
I remind myself of this when something seems daunting. Eventually, just taking small steps will add up to something magnificent.