A Letter to the Man I Was in Spring

My boys,

Dear me, in April,

I know what you are doing.

You are looking at everything beginning again and assuming you should be beginning again too.

The trees are filling out.

The mornings are getting warmer.

The garden is mostly bare soil and possibility.

You have plans.

Too many, probably.

You have lists in your head that nobody else knows exist.

Things you want to build.

Things you want to fix.

Things you want to become before another year gets away from you.

You think you need to hurry.

You don't.

I am writing to you from October.

Most of the leaves are turning now.

Some are already on the ground.

It gets dark before you think it should.

The garden does not look anything like the one you imagined while standing over it in April.

Some things grew.

Some didn't.

A few things you worked hardest on gave you almost nothing.

And some of the best things that happened this year were never on your list.

I know you will hate hearing that.

You like plans.

Keep making them.

Just stop asking them to predict your life.

There are people you are worried about in April.

Call them.

Not because something terrible is coming.

Because you love them now.

There are conversations you are rehearsing.

Have them more gently than you are planning to.

You do not need to win every sentence.

There is work you think must happen immediately.

Some of it can wait.

There are boys in the house getting older while you are thinking about work.

Go outside with them.

Stay longer.

When one of them asks you to look at something that seems completely unimportant, look.

It is important because he asked you.

You are going to spend some of this year believing you are behind.

You aren't.

You are simply inside a season whose shape you cannot see yet.

That is different.

You will lose some things.

I will not tell you which ones.

Knowing would not help.

You would only start grieving them early.

And there are moments ahead that will hurt.

I cannot spare you those either.

But listen to me:

Do not become harder just because something becomes hard.

That temptation will come.

Stay soft where softness is strength.

There will also be good things.

Quiet ones.

A conversation you did not expect.

Food around a crowded table.

Cold hands inside yours.

A friend calling after too much time.

Work finished before dark.

The boys laughing when you were trying to be serious.

You will miss some of these moments while they are happening.

I did.

Try not to.

And about God—

you are going to ask Him for things.

Some answers will come.

Some will not.

Some will come wearing clothes you do not recognize.

Do not mistake silence for absence.

Keep showing up.

Even when all you have is yourself sitting there.

You do not need a better prayer.

You need an honest one.

There is one more thing I wish I could give you.

Permission to let enough be enough.

April makes everything feel possible.

October teaches you that possibility was never the point.

You were never going to do everything.

Grow everything.

Save everything.

Keep everything.

The question was always what you would care for while it was yours.

So plant.

Work.

Risk.

Love people.

Build the thing.

Take care of your body.

Save some money.

Come home for dinner.

Pray.

Rest.

And when something does not grow, do not immediately decide the season was wasted.

I am standing months ahead of you now.

I can see things you cannot.

And even from here, I still cannot see very far.

That may be the part neither of us likes.

But I trust God a little differently than you do.

Not because I understand more.

Because I have had to understand less.

You will get here.

Do not rush.

October will come on its own.

Until then, notice April.

It will not stay either.

— Me, a few seasons older

My boys,

Someday I hope you write letters like this to yourselves.

Not because the older version of you will have everything figured out.

He won't.

Write because distance reveals things urgency hides.

Look back without mocking the man you were.

He was working with what he knew.

Thank him for what he got right.

Forgive him for what he didn't.

Then listen carefully to what the season since has taught you.

And keep going.

I love you.

— Baba

Question:

If you could send one honest paragraph to yourself six months ago, what would you tell him to stop worrying about—and what would you tell him to notice before it passes?

Moral:

Growth is not looking back and feeling superior to who you were. It is looking back with enough grace to see what that version of you could not yet see, then carrying the lesson forward.

This story reflects real experiences and philosophies behind Backyard Brew. It is shared to preserve perspective, faith, growth, and intention.

Author: R. Solace