Lost Years: A Letter to My Younger Self

“Why are you still waiting for him?” My sister Emily’s voice is sharp, slicing through the stillness of my living room. I stare at the half-empty glass of wine in my hand, the clock on the wall, the phone that never rings. I want to tell her that it’s not that simple—but I’ve run out of explanations, even for myself.

I’m forty years old, and tonight, the silence in my apartment presses in like a weight I can’t push off. There’s no laughter in the next room, no tiny footsteps, no one to call me Mom. Just the echo of my own choices, circling back with relentless clarity.

I met Michael when I was twenty-seven. He was the kind of man who made you feel like you were the only person in the world. His eyes lit up when he saw me, his words were gentle, full of dreams and promises. He was also married, with two kids and a wife he claimed was nothing more than a roommate. “It’s complicated,” he’d say, his hand warm in mine. “But it won’t always be.”

I remember the first time I told someone about him. It was my best friend, Jenna, after too many cocktails at a rooftop bar in Brooklyn. She leaned over, her eyes wide, whispering, “You deserve so much more, Allison. You’re not the other woman—you’re the only woman to yourself.” But I brushed her off, convinced that love, real love, was worth waiting for. Worth sacrificing for.

Years slipped by in a haze of secret dates, hidden texts, and stolen weekends. Every birthday, every Christmas, I told myself that next year things would be different. He’d leave, he’d choose me, and all the hurt would be justified by the happy ending I’d built in my mind.

But tonight, as I stare at the flickering light under my front door—a neighbor coming home, a life moving forward—I realize how much time I’ve lost. Michael is still married. His kids are older now; his wife, as far as I know, still oblivious. And I’m still the secret, the ghost that haunts the edges of his life.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Emily says, her voice softening. “You always said you wanted a family.”

“I know,” I whisper, my voice catching. “But I thought… I thought he loved me.”

She sighs. “He might love you, Allison. But he won’t choose you.”

That’s the truth—they won’t say it in movies, but it’s true for so many of us. We cling to hope like it’s a life raft, even as it drags us under.

I see it now—in the way my colleagues talk about their kids’ school plays, in the baby shower invites I RSVP to, always with a polite excuse. I see it in my mother’s eyes when she talks about grandchildren, her hope shifting into sadness when she looks at me. I see it most sharply in the quiet, in the way my apartment stays clean, my fridge half-empty, my weekends unplanned.

If you’d asked me at twenty-five, I would have told you I’d be married by now, maybe with two kids, a house with a backyard, a dog. I never imagined I’d be here, writing a letter to strangers, trying to make sense of a life that feels both too full and too empty at the same time.

But here’s the part I need you to hear—the part I wish someone had told me, loudly enough that I couldn’t ignore it: Don’t waste your precious years waiting for someone who keeps you in the shadows. Don’t believe the promise that their pain will end, that you are the exception, that your love is enough to rewrite their story.

I let my youth slip away in hotel rooms and secret rendezvous, my heart breaking in slow motion every time he whispered, “Soon,” and then drove home to someone else. I missed chances to build a life of my own, to meet someone who could have loved me openly, to have the family I always dreamed of.

It’s not that I don’t take responsibility—every choice was mine, every warning ignored. I thought I was different. I thought he would change. I thought love was enough.

Tonight, I pour another glass of wine and stare at the city lights outside my window. I wonder about the women reading this, women who still have time to choose differently. I want to reach through the screen and shake you, beg you not to make the same mistakes I did. I want to shout that you are worth more than someone’s empty promises, that you deserve to be someone’s first choice, not their secret.

My phone buzzes—another text from Michael: “Thinking of you. Can’t talk tonight, but soon. I promise.”

I don’t respond. For the first time, I think about blocking his number, about what it would mean to finally let go. The thought terrifies me, but also, for a brief moment, it feels like relief.

Emily leaves, her hug tight, her eyes worried. Alone again, I sit in the quiet and write this letter, not for sympathy, but for the hope that maybe, just maybe, someone will read it and walk away before it’s too late.

Do you ever wonder how many lives we trade for a hope that never comes true? How much happiness slips through our fingers while we wait for someone who will never really be ours? If you’re reading this, please—don’t wait as long as I did.