‘I know it’s hard, but please stop counting calories; your body isn’t even fully developed yet’
- Áine Budds, chef, 24
Buckle up, my dear. It’s going to be a hell of a ride. You’re 14 and this next decade is going to pull the rug from under you in ways you can’t imagine. Here’s hoping the beautiful irony of it will make you laugh almost as much as it has made me cry. You see, you are studying Robert Frost for your Junior Cert and I am writing poetry for pleasure. You are afraid to drink with your friends and I am two years sober. You are questioning your existence on this planet, and I am just now finding out the answers.
This is to say, I took that road less travelled. Hell, I’m not even sure there was another option. If there was, I urge you not to take it. Stay the course. For all that this journey will exhaust and terrify you, it will be worth it to find yourself at the end. I need you to trust me on this one. Or at least trust Frost; the guy seemed to know what he was talking about.
So, here is what I have learned. Despite what you think, at 14, you’re simply not supposed to have it all figured out. Don’t tell anyone, but a decade later I am still just winging it, one day at a time. You should know that when things seem worst is usually when they start getting better. It is only human to make mistakes. You need to try to get comfortable with that fact. Practise forgiving yourself now, even if just for the small stuff.
Self-compassion will be your life raft these next few years, as unnatural as it seems. It is okay not to know the answers, or to get a C on a test, or to f*ck up a ballet drill here and there. I promise you the world will not end if you don’t get straight As in your exams. And for the love of God, you don’t need 600 points in the Leaving Cert either. Take a day off studying, preferably a few. Keep drawing, even though you don’t think you’re very good at it – that’s not the point. Challenge that inner critic with everything you’ve got. Hug your parents more. Your siblings too. You may not always agree with them, but they do love you.
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I know it’s hard, but please stop counting calories; your body isn’t even fully developed yet. Tell yourself you’re beautiful even if you don’t believe it, because you are. Because eventually it will stick. It is okay to be depressed, to be overwhelmed. It’s actually completely normal. So many young people are. Be gentle with yourself. You are so young to have watched two grandparents pass already and another will leave you next year. This grief will not be easy to carry. It will show up in strange places at the most inconvenient of times. Don’t hold it in: let it pour out of you when it comes. Love is messy, and it only gets messier. I should know: I let the wrong man break my heart more than once.
Embrace the chaos and throw perfection to the wind. Be proud of the woman you are becoming. I know I am.
‘You’ll think you’ve wasted your life. You haven’t’
- Tony Cantwell, comedian, 37
Ooof. Right, you’re 27 and just got sacked from the best job you’ve ever had. But seriously, man. You didn’t make a single sale in six months, and they were pretty salty after you threw your birthday party there and brought all your mates and broke the office beer keg. Turns out WeWork’s taps weren’t built to handle someone swinging off it like Mufasa, screaming, “Brother! Help me!”
But I will help you, brother. First, start listening to people. For instance, your bird when she says, “It’ll be fine; I love you,” or your far-too-young new boss when he says, “You’re really good at this, Tiger.” Also, the lads in sales will call you Tiger, and you’ll love it – but don’t go pint-for-pint with them. They’re all jacked! And British!
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You’ll put your dream of being a comedian on hold this year, yet somehow make the funniest stuff you’ve ever done. Without the pressure, it’ll all be for fun. You’ll start posting dumb videos online (with an old iPad) just to make your mates laugh, and then their mates will start commenting on the videos, then, one day, someone you don’t know at all will comment, and your head will explode. Also a funny idea is more valuable than fancy gear, so don’t waste your money.
You’ll do a gig with Big Keith from The Office (RIP), and it’ll make you want to do stand-up but you won’t get around to it. Get around to it! But for the love of Christ, please learn the difference between a funny premise and an actual joke (and if you figure it out, let me know because I still haven’t a notion). When you write, rewrite, and put the funny word at the end. Oh, and don’t bin a joke just because it feels “too obvious”. It just feels obvious because it fits.
You and herself are getting serious this year, so here’s a tip: let fights go unresolved overnight. You’ll resent apologising so much for the sake of ending it quick. Instead, and this sounds counterintuitive, get mad! Write every petty ridiculous thought in your head down on paper. Vent like you’re Henry Rollins; go full tilt. By paragraph three, you’ll start disagreeing with yourself. That’s where clarity lives. Sleep on it, then chat in the morning over coffee. And burn the paper.
Finally, you’ll read more than 30 productivity books between then and now, but all you need is David Allen’s tip: “If it takes less than two minutes, do it now.” Deep work can only be done in 25-minute bursts.
Lastly, you’ll think you’ve wasted your life. You haven’t. Wasting time has been your secret weapon. You’ve trained yourself to see patterns, find laughs in the gaps and connect with people.
Pfft! Ah no, I’m messing; you’ve absolutely wasted your gorgeous youth. But don’t worry, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking at photos of yourself at 27, thinking, “What an A-tier little yoke I was.” Because you are.
‘People will recognise you and mostly it will be lovely, but sometimes it will be rude and upsetting’
- Siobhán McSweeney, actor, 45
My God, girl, you’re 35 and what a decade you are about to have. You think the last decade was mad, well hold on to your wig, it’s about to kick off. Some pretty awful things are on their way. Deaths, a pandemic, bike accidents, fires. But there are also some wonderful things coming. You are going to end filming Derry Girls on crutches but clutching a Bafta. You will write and direct your first film. You are going to learn to give the right amount of f*cks. As Bowie said, getting older is becoming the person you were always meant to be.
Some advice I’m going to give you to ease your way through this bonkers decade. You are going to need help at points. Try to learn now how to ask for it. You are lucky. You are surrounded by friends and family who love you and are dying to help you when you need it. Start small and build up the muscle. You really don’t have to do it all yourself.
Talking of muscle, something wonderful is going to happen. You are going to nearly lose your leg and experience lifelong pain and discomfort. It’s going to make you fall in love with your body. I know! Who knew that could happen? Thirty-five years of indifference verging on low-key hostility will change. You are going to stop looking at your body as a flesh cage that carries your brain around the place. Instead you are going to gaze in wonder and adoration as it heals from surgery, as it relearns how to walk and cycle and dance.
In an attempt to distract yourself from pain, you are going to learn to fall in love with the small things. The light coming in the window, the feel of a cushion placed just where you need it, a cup of coffee outside with a pal. This will be the biggest learning event of your life. Prepare by trying to start that love affair with your body now. I know, I know, but it can be done.
Your career is going to take off. And that will be weird. People will recognise you on the street and mostly it will be lovely, but sometimes it will be rude and upsetting. Some people will not like that you don’t hate yourself and don’t want to hide yourself away. That’s grand. That’s nothing to do with you. It will feel isolating at times, but remember it’s (mostly) people trying to connect. And that’s always to be respected and cherished.
Get off Twitter. Now.
Remember you can’t do everything. You’ll ignore me, but you’ll get burnt out. I know it’s hard to say no to work. It goes against everything you were taught. But at some point you have to trust that your whole life deserves as much balance as possible. If nothing else, to practise more mischief. Start spending money on good shoes. It will give you joy and your feet won’t hurt as much. The panic you feel about the world is nothing like what you are going to feel in a decade. That said, everyone is feeling it. That comforts me now, I hope it comforts you then. You can’t fix everything. Siobhán. You are doing really well. I promise you. You aren’t lazy. And in your 40s you are going to rock a grey mohawk.
‘You’re about to enter the most difficult period you’ve ever known, but don’t despair’
- John Boyne, author, 53
Right now, at 43, your life is fantastic. Your career’s going great, you’re 11 years into a happy relationship and two years into a civil partnership. But you’re about to enter the most difficult period you’ve ever known. That relationship is going to end, and his departure will be as brutal as it is cruel. Over the next few years, you’ll drink too much. You’ll forget that humans only need three meals a day. You’ll take substances that are illegal for a reason. You’ll end up in hospital more than once. You’ll cause distress for your family because they’re not sure you’re going to survive. You’ll believe that you’ll never be happy again.
Then you’ll write a book built around love, kindness and compassion, and it will feel like the world has turned on you. A small group of deeply unpleasant people will do all they can to destroy your reputation, your mental health and your career. They’ll do this because they are filled with hatred and poisoned by envy. As they feed off your pain, you’ll consider giving up the thing you love most in the world: writing.
But that period will come to an end.
Ten years from now, everything will be different. The pain you endured after the break-up will never fully disappear, but you’ll have met someone great, someone kind, someone who makes you feel valued. You’ll love him and he’ll love you.
Your books will still be selling all over the world, in even greater quantities. Every day, readers will tell you how much they enjoy them. And while you’re winning at love and life, the people who tried to destroy you will still be hiding behind their keyboards and screens, spewing toxicity.
So don’t despair, John. Yes, there are rough times ahead but everything will turn out fine. You’re stronger than you realise.
‘The people who humiliated you? The toxic friend? Let it all go’
- Rita Ann Higgins, poet, 69
You are 59. You get over things, but humiliation kind of stays with you. It’s as powerful a weapon as isolation. You wish you did not remember the people who humiliated you or those who isolated you. You think of a toxic friend who makes you feel bad about yourself while complimenting you at the same time.
Note to your 59-year-old self: let it go, Rita, let it go.
Fifty-nine. You might join Facebook: everyone is on it. Thoughts of comfortable shoes are entering your consciousness. You go to Liverpool to read for an organisation called RISE, to support families affected by a loved one’s addictive behaviour. You share the task with the brilliant poet John Burnside (since deceased). You travel light and on your way home a flight attendant insists your bag has the wrong dimensions and you have to leave it in the airport.
You feel humiliated walking across the tarmac with things falling out of the plastic bag: your toothbrush, and other small items. The poem lands months later: it is called Cryanair.
Let it go, Rita, let it go.
Fifty-nine. You are thinking of joining Twitter. You give in to your daughters and accept a trip to Dubai for your 60th birthday. You don’t like far away. You like Lanzarote or Portugal and holidays with an all-you-can-eat buffet included in the price. (You love flying over Fatima. You always feel you get buckshee blessing that way, the blessing wafting up as you fly.) You go on a holiday to Rome with your daughter. You go on a walking tour of ancient Rome. Later, you write a sequence of filthy poems. They feature Caligula and Claudius and other dodgy articles from that time, popes not excluded. You hope your daughter never reads them.
You might join Instagram, everyone is on it. You might read the Bible. You love parables. You need to read more Irish. Your geography is awful. You don’t know where Cork is.
You are still thinking about your nifty case in Liverpool airport.
Let it go, Rita, let it go.
‘Homophobia doesn’t stop. I wish you had the confidence to say to those people: you ought to be ashamed of yourself’
- Noel Cunningham, author, broadcaster and former hotelier, 71
Dear 61-year-old Noel,
Now would be a good time for you to sit down and do a review of where you’re at. Stop being so hard on yourself at this strange time of life. Appreciate that body of yours. Don’t act your age. And when you look back on your life, look at the positives. Those negatives that have gone before will bring you forward in this new decade.
Set new goals. Let go, a little, of the past. Try to live in the day. Do a cleansing. Look at the friends that surround you, and lose some of them. Gently let them get on with their own lives, because they’re bringing you down a negative road. Surround yourself with positivity. And people who follow their dreams, and find joy in fitness and travel.
Just because you’re in your 60s doesn’t mean you can’t grab new opportunities. But more importantly, hold on to your dreams. Get out of your comfort zone. Don’t obsess about your health. Leave Dr Google where he is. Don’t allow your anxieties and concerns about the autumn and winter of your life to take over. Don’t let age define you.
Get up. Dress up. Go out. Act disgracefully even, if necessary. Stop being afraid of what other people think of you. You are only answerable to yourself. Be aware that being in 60s doesn’t mean you have a monopoly on wisdom. Share your anxieties and worries, including with those younger than you. Don’t look back with regret – look at the things you’ve overcome.
Don’t allow those people to bully you any further. Homophobia doesn’t stop when you’re 18, or 20, or 25. And it doesn’t stop with older people, who are just as capable of firing that arrow of horror at the gay person. I wish you had the confidence that you will have at 71, to turn to those people and say, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
And one to remember, whatever age you are: if you love people and they’re good, decent people, or someone doing good work, tell them.
‘You must not fall, unless it’s in love, and even then be careful’
- Ann Ingle, writer, 85
You are 75 now but be prepared. It’s no joke after 80. The late nights have to go. You will need to go to bed earlier, even if you are just listening to the radio or reading a book. The old body needs its rest. Make a friend of your doctor and don’t hesitate to investigate any changes in your bodily functions. Go for yearly blood tests, just in case. Don’t bother stocking up on expensive tights, you won’t be wearing them for much longer. Wriggling into them just isn’t worth the time and effort. Any clothes you buy should be easy to wear and comfortable. Just make sure you get fully dressed every day; if not it could become a slippery slope.
Declutter your make-up bag. The foundations you currently use only add another layer to your wrinkles. Best just use a good tinted moisturiser from now on. When people ask you what you want for Christmas, tell them “experience” presents or gift vouchers, otherwise you will end up with a mountain of scarves. Get rid of any loose rugs, make sure you have a sturdy rubber mat in the shower room and keep your eye out for wonky paths when you are out walking. You must not fall, unless it’s in love, and even then be careful.
As for changing the world, there is very little you can do and unfortunately few will be prepared to listen to you anyway, even if you have the solution for world peace or the climate crisis. Keep recycling and don’t accumulate too many unnecessary items. Try with all your might not to turn into a cranky old wan, despite the arthritic knee. Say yes when people ask you to visit or go on holiday. If your children want you to fly to Spain, London or America, go. Those lovely people at Dublin Airport will look after you. Get out there. Keep moving, keep walking, even when you would rather stay at home. Smile at everyone you meet. Always finish the crossword.
‘When you find yourself stuck with a real bore, have a bit of fun with him’
- Eda Sagarra, former professor of German at Trinity College Dublin, 91
You are in your 80s. You made it. Now there’s a bit of adjusting to the new reality. You will be humoured more than ever, so get used to it. This will be especially true in your dealings with officialdom. The disembodied voice on the phone from the public utility will call you “dearie”. They will treat you as if you had an IQ of less than 50. It’s all about coping. Proceed strategically.
When they ask for your date of birth and then say “you sound great for your age”, it’s time to establish equality by replying “and you sound not too bad yourself”.
Don’t apologise for being old. For dropping your purse at the checkout or not having your bus pass to hand. Don’t define yourself as an old dear. There’s no future in that. Which brings us to the key strategic tool: forget the past, it’s all about the future.
Don’t cod yourself that people are going to be fascinated by your past. The odd grandchild might but most won’t – they’ll be in Australia. Be with people as much as you can, but remember: you aren’t the centre of attention any more.
Try listening rather than talking (yes, I know it’s hard), don’t wait eagerly for your “turn” (it probably won’t come); ask them about themselves, but really mean it. Enjoy your time with younger people, especially those much younger than you. They are worth listening to, their world and life experience so different from your own.
Finally, when you find yourself stuck with a real bore, have a bit of fun with him. (The hims won’t notice what you are up to, but you’ll soon be rumbled by the hers.) Talk exclusively about him for the entire conversation and he’ll be sure to tell his friends: “What an interesting woman she is.”
Additional reporting by Róisín Ingle and Jen Hogan
