Letters to My Younger Self: What I Wish I Knew at 25

Letters to My Younger Self: What I Wish I Knew at 25

There’s a peculiar ache that comes with aging—not the physical kind, though that arrives too—but the mental one. It’s the recognition of roads not taken, conversations I should have had, and truths I learned far too late. If I could write letters to my younger self at 25, I’d fill pages. Not with regret, mind you. Life has been generous to me. But with the kind of hard-won wisdom that only decades of living—and yes, failing—can teach you.

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Last updated: 2026-03-23

When you’re 25, you think you understand the world. You’ve read books, you’ve had some heartbreak, maybe you’ve traveled a bit. You’re confident in a way that feels earned. But you’re not. None of us are. The things I wish I’d known then weren’t complicated. They were simple, almost obvious. The trouble is, you can’t really know them until you’ve lived them.

So here I am, in my late fifties, looking back across three decades of journalism, relationships, mistakes, and small victories. I’ve covered stories that mattered, interviewed people who changed my perspective, and learned that the most important narratives are often the ones we live rather than the ones we report. If I could sit down with my 25-year-old self—fresh from Korea University, full of idealism about truth and journalism—I’d have some things to tell him.

Your Career Won’t Define You Nearly as Much as You Think

At 25, I believed that my journalism career was my identity. This wasn’t unusual—I’d studied Korean language education at Korea University specifically to prepare for this path. The newsroom felt like the most important place in the world. Every story mattered. Every byline was a small victory. I measured my worth in assignments, promotions, and the respect I earned from editors and colleagues.

What I wish I’d known then: your job is something you do, not something you are.

This took me nearly two decades to fully understand. The turning point came when, during a particularly brutal news cycle in my mid-forties, I realized that none of the accolades or stories I’d chased so desperately had made me happier. In fact, the opposite was often true. The more I’d invested my identity in journalism, the more anxious I became about being replaced, becoming irrelevant, or—God forbid—being wrong in print.

Those 30+ years in newsrooms taught me something valuable, but not in the way I expected. They taught me that meaningful work is important, but meaningful living is infinitely more so. The letters to my younger self at 25 would emphasize this urgently: build a life, not just a career. Have friends outside the industry. Develop interests that have nothing to do with your job. Fall in love with something besides getting ahead.

When I finally retired, I expected to feel lost. Instead, I felt liberated. The work had been good, and I’m proud of it. But it wasn’t my life. It was a chapter of my life. This distinction—which seems obvious now—would have saved my younger self a tremendous amount of unnecessary stress.

Money Matters Less Than You Fear, More Than You Think

At 25, I was worried about money. Not obsessed, perhaps, but concerned in the way young professionals are when they’re just starting out, trying to establish themselves, and still remembering the uncertainty of student years.

The truth? It’s more complicated than either extreme.

The letters to my younger self at 25 would make this clear: having enough money is genuinely important. It’s not shallow to want financial security. It’s sane. The stress of constant financial precarity damages your health, your relationships, and your capacity for joy. If you can, build a modest safety net. Save what you can. Don’t ignore this just because you’re supposed to be young and idealistic.

But—and this is crucial—beyond a certain point, more money doesn’t translate to more happiness. This point is lower than you’d expect. Research has consistently shown that life satisfaction increases with income up to a threshold (somewhere around $75,000-$95,000 annually, depending on where you live), and then the correlation weakens dramatically. I spent my thirties chasing higher paychecks, convinced that the next promotion would bring contentment. It never did.

What actually matters: spending on experiences rather than things, giving money to people you care about, and using money as a tool for freedom rather than a measure of worth. The best investment I ever made wasn’t real estate or stocks—it was time. Taking unpaid leave to travel. Reducing work hours in my fifties to have space for other interests. Working a KATUSA position early in my career, which paid less but gave me experiences that shaped my entire worldview.

During my years of KATUSA service, I lived on very little money but gathered experiences that felt priceless. Serving alongside American soldiers, navigating cross-cultural communication, understanding obligation and camaraderie in a way that no civilian job could teach—this was worth far more than the higher salary I could have earned elsewhere.

The People You Love Matter More Than You’re Currently Showing

This is the hardest one to write, because I still carry some regret here.

At 25, I was ambitious, driven, and—though I didn’t fully recognize it—somewhat distant from the people closest to me. I was so focused on the future, on proving myself, on climbing the ladder, that I didn’t fully inhabit my present relationships. I was there, but not really there. I said yes to work events and said no to Sunday dinners. I was “too busy” for long conversations. I promised to visit and didn’t follow through.

What I wish I’d known: the people you love won’t wait forever, and they shouldn’t have to.

In my experience—both lived and observed through decades of journalism—the deepest regrets people carry aren’t about professional failures. They’re about relationships. The parent who died before you told them you understood. The friend you drifted from because you were too busy to maintain the connection. The partner who needed you to be present and you were elsewhere, mentally or physically.

The letters to my younger self at 25 would be direct: call your parents. Listen to your friends without checking your phone. Be on time. Show up. These aren’t small things. They’re everything.

I’ve learned that relationships, unlike careers, don’t forgive neglect. You can take a year off from journalism and come back. You can’t take a decade off from your marriage and expect it to be waiting.

Your Body Will Feel like a Betrayal, But It’s Trying to Help You

At 25, I took my body for granted. I could eat whatever I wanted, stay up all night, work through injuries, and bounce back the next day. My back didn’t hurt. My knees didn’t complain. I had the kind of physical resilience that made me feel invincible.

By 40, things had changed. By 50, I was finally paying attention.

Here’s what I wish I’d known: your body isn’t betraying you when it gets older and more fragile. It’s actually asking you to listen. The aches and pains aren’t signs of decline so much as signs that something needs attention. And prevention at 25 matters exponentially more than treatment at 55.

In my years covering health and wellness stories, I interviewed countless people in their sixties and seventies who said the same thing: “I wish I’d taken better care of myself when I was young.” They didn’t mean they wished they’d been miserable at 25, obsessing over fitness. They meant they wished they’d understood that movement, rest, and nutrition were forms of self-respect, not punishment.

The letters to my younger self at 25 would emphasize building habits now that will sustain you later. Not crash diets or extreme fitness regimens, but sustainable patterns: walking regularly, eating mostly whole foods, sleeping enough, stretching. These aren’t glamorous or Instagram-worthy. But they’re the difference between 55 and vibrant versus 55 and struggling.

I started serious hiking in my late forties, and it changed my life. Not because it made me thin or competitive, but because it connected me to my body in a way that desk work never had. It showed me what I was capable of. It gave me a reason to stay healthy that had nothing to do with vanity.

The World Won’t Punish You as Much as You Fear for Being Human

At 25, I was terrified of making mistakes. In journalism, mistakes are public and permanent. A wrong fact in a published article lives forever. This professional anxiety bled into my personal life. I was overly cautious. I apologized for things that didn’t require apologies. I stayed quiet when I should have spoken up. I performed a version of myself I thought the world wanted rather than being myself.

What I know now: people are far more forgiving than you think, and the things you’re most afraid of usually don’t happen.

Over three decades in newsrooms, I made mistakes. I published things I later questioned. I made editorial choices I’d revisit. I had disagreements with sources and colleagues. Some of these moments felt devastating at the time. Looking back, most of them turned out to be small. People moved on. I learned and did better next time.

The letters to my younger self at 25 would encourage more boldness: speak your mind more often. Make mistakes while you’re young enough to recover from them. Say no to things that don’t align with your values. Say yes to things that scare you. Be weird. Be authentic. Be fallible.

You will fail. You’ll disappoint people. You’ll say the wrong thing. You’ll make decisions you later regret. And the world will keep turning. You’ll keep living. And you’ll be better for having tried and failed than for having hidden in safety.

Wisdom Isn’t About Having Answers—It’s About Better Questions

This is perhaps the most important letter I’d write to my younger self at 25: the goal of life isn’t to figure everything out. It’s to ask better questions along the way.

At 25, I thought older people had it all figured out. They seemed so confident, so certain. I assumed that by 35 or 45, I’d understand how everything worked. I’d have answers. I’d be able to advise others with authority.

Instead, I’ve gotten older and more comfortable with uncertainty.

This doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like a gain. The questions I ask now—about meaning, about how to live well, about what matters—are far more interesting than the answers I thought I needed at 25. And the people I most respect aren’t the ones with the most certainty. They’re the ones curious enough to keep asking, humble enough to admit what they don’t know, and wise enough to hold their convictions loosely.

The letters to my younger self at 25 would say: stop trying to have all the answers. Start noticing which questions matter. Get curious about the people around you. Listen more than you talk. Change your mind when evidence warrants it. This flexibility is not weakness. It’s wisdom.

A Letter Actually Written

If I could hand my younger self a physical letter at 25, it might read something like this:

“Dear younger self,

You’re going to do interesting work. You’ll tell important stories. You’ll travel. You’ll learn things about the world and about yourself that matter. But here’s what you need to know right now, while you’re still becoming who you’ll be:

Your worth isn’t measured in bylines or promotions. Your life is bigger than your career, and that’s not a failure—it’s a gift. Take care of your body like you’re planning to live a long time, because you are. Show up for the people you love with the same dedication you bring to work. Stop worrying so much about what people think. Be brave enough to be wrong, kind enough to admit it, and resilient enough to keep going.

The future will feel uncertain, and that’s okay. Uncertainty is where all the interesting stuff happens. You’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine. You’ll be real, and that’s worth more than any version of perfect you could perform.

Trust yourself. Be kind. Pay attention. The best is not behind you—it’s ahead.

Your future self”

The truth is, if I could give my 25-year-old self a letter containing letters to my younger self at 25, he probably wouldn’t fully understand it. That’s okay. The understanding comes with time. But maybe he’d trust it. Maybe he’d take a little more time with his parents. Maybe he’d worry a little less about climbing. Maybe he’d notice the world more and push himself less.

If he could do that—just a little bit—the next 30+ years might be even richer than they turned out to be.