An Open Letter to My 20-Something Self—And Panicked Gen Zers Everywhere

Hey, girl. It’s me, the 35-year-old version of you. Are you sitting down? I am because my lower back starts to hurt when I’ve been standing for too long. Don’t worry; we haven’t reached the point of orthopedic shoes just yet, but be advised, Birkenstocks are typically our footwear du jour. Trust me, they’re just as cute as those thrifted kitten heels that give you a recurring toe blister. 

I know you’re worried about these next few birthdays, and it’s not hard to understand why. Society places such a heavy premium on youth that it can feel like you’re stepping off a cliff the moment you turn 30. After all, 2023 was unironically crowned “the year of the girl.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about celebrating the wondrous mystery of girlhood, that fleeting period of self-discovery and vulnerability before you leave the nest and enter the labyrinth of adult problems. It’s great while also being completely awful and weird. You made it out relatively unscathed and embarked upon your first decade of full-fledged womanhood. Fantastic! 

Except now that you’re here, everyone and everything seems to warn you that your youth is slipping away along with the thickness of your hair and the amount of collagen in your skin. To outsiders, and the reflection gazing back at you in the mirror, this passage of time is evident with every new fine line and random sprout of gray hair robbing you of your beauty and desirability (or so they say). This is the price we must unwittingly pay with every passing year, and be advised—you will pay plenty.

I know that your medicine cabinet is packed to the brim with serums and toners to stave off your impending physical decline. You’ve made appointments with estheticians and dermatologists to blast away the signs of aging while your bank account balance dwindles. Who needs retirement savings when you can have a smooth forehead and a spotless complexion, right? Lasers, peels, injections, radiofrequency—you can and will try them all. 

It might seem absurd to think that you’ll stare at yourself on a screen even more than you do now, but rest assured, soon you’ll rarely take a meeting without seeing your face reflected back at you. You’ll study it passively at first, and then catch a glimpse of yourself in bad lighting (are those jowls??) and recommit to that expensive prescription retinol cream. Next, you’ll worry if your twice-yearly highlights are enough to cover the grays that continue to pop up out of nowhere and text your colorist for an emergency appointment. Then a face roller takes up permanent residence on your desk to sculpt your jawline and cheekbones between Zoom calls. Days before your 29th birthday, a dermatologist you just met recommends a touch of filler to soften your smile lines and you agree. You leave the office still feeling numb and not just from the topical anesthetic. 

“Do I look old?” you worry as you wash your face with a glycolic acid cleanser morning and night (unaware that it’s far too strong for your sensitive skin). The question preoccupies far too much space in your overbooked and overstimulated mind. “What else should I be doing?”

Then suddenly, there’s no time to overthink your age because that terrifying birthday finally arrives and the panic of not being in your 20s anymore is replaced with the awe of being in your 30s. After a few months, the novelty wears off and you begin to understand that youth is remarkably less interesting than personal growth. Rather than identifying as young and dumb, you start to feel sexy and seasoned and elegant and wise. You lift your head (also highly beneficial for those tech-neck lines), look around at your peers and notice that time has made them more alluring, well-traveled, witty, and complex. The next time you catch your reflection in the mirror or on a screen you wonder if everyone else sees you this way too. The prospect makes you smile, lines be damned, as your confidence begins to blossom.

A few serums and creams remain in your cabinet, a well-edited collection of products that you now know are worth the investment and not the result of a late-night social media scroll. You visit your favorite dermatologist for biannual maintenance treatments and always engage in conversation about comprehensive skin health, not just instant fixes. You’re unafraid to ask questions or admit when you don’t understand something because you’d much rather be curious than ignorant. A desire for health has gained equal footing with that of beauty, especially now that you understand you cannot have one without the other (at least not for long). The term “anti-aging” starts to sound as ridiculous as the concept itself. We’re all going to get old—if we’re lucky. It’s life’s greatest, unstoppable equalizer. You stop trying so hard to fight it and attempt, instead, to embrace it.

Of course those unrealistic beauty standards still exist, but your ability to ignore and outright reject them feels stronger than ever. Instead, you question why they’ve managed to endure in the first place. You realize you have power and autonomy in your choices, whether you want to color those grays or let them flourish on your head unchecked. It finally registers, “I can do this aging thing any way I want, and it’s nobody’s business but my own.” 

Your fear about looking old gradually eases (although it never completely goes away), replaced by the recognition that our time here is finite. There are other things that deserve your attention—seeing friends and family, building a fulfilling career, accepting that you really hate having long nails even though the fashion girlies make them look so chic. Yes, you are growing older and it shows, but you are also evolving into a more fully realized version of yourself. The tradeoff, fine lines and all, is so, so worth it. Finally, the realization washes over you like your favorite hydrating balm: Age is not just about the loss of youth but rather the collection of delicious, imperfect experiences. Hold fast to this every time you look in the mirror. 

So, my dear panicked 20-something, do me a favor and apply some sunscreen, log off social media, travel the world, enjoy a love affair, drink a martini, and stop agonizing so much about aging. It’s a privilege, I promise you.

Love, yourself.