A Letter from 80-Year-Old Me

I’ve always thought elderly women are stunning. The laugh lines. The weathered hands. The twinkle in the eye that can only come from lived experience and whispers, “It’s going to be okay… you’ll see.”

The respect for the sunrises left. The knowing of the true self. The resilience. The peaceful countenance. The evidence of the shattered ceilings. The absence of give-a-shits. The freedom of perspective. The understanding of love over time.

I’m currently working my way through The Artist’s Way again by Julia Cameron. The first time I read it, ten years ago, I had just moved to Nashville. I’d just started co-writing daily and was intimidated by the immense volume of talent in this town, doubting my ability to offer something meaningful in those rooms. I was afraid of the idea river running dry. Committing to the prompts in that weekly guide helped me find my center as an artist and a writer. It gave me confidence in my skills and connection to my greater creative source. I just started this journey over and I’m smiling at the ways it’s helping bring me back to that sense of self in a whole different season of my life.

One of the greatest tools in this workbook is the practice of Morning Pages. The task is simple: fill three pages at the start of every day. I take my journal outside while Sam wanders and chases squirrels, and I let the pen run free. It’s an act of clearing out the cobwebs—letting the subconscious ramble. There’s no desired outcome except to fill the pages. I’m not trying to write my best work, come up with a song idea, or start a novel. It’s just clearing the path for the day—sweeping the steps of my creative mind.

I have no intention of looking back through these pages. Sometimes it’s just noting what I see around me, or writing that I don’t know what to write, and then rambling about that. Sometimes the pages are ugly. Sometimes I vent. Sometimes I get out the feelings I don’t feel brave enough to say out loud. Sometimes I surprise myself by discovering how I actually feel when I let the page be a safe place. Sometimes I list affirmations. Sometimes I write a prayer. Sometimes I write down my dreams from the night before. Sometimes I write my list of fears and give them a place to land instead of stuffing them in a drawer inside myself. It feels good to let the rambles land.

Sometimes I respond to specific prompts from the workbook. One of them this week asked me to write a letter from my 80-year-old self. What is she like? What does she wear? What does she love to do? What wisdom would she share with me now?

Before I started writing, I found myself smiling, remembering having tea with Emmylou Harris a little while ago. Even typing that sentence makes me shake my head in awe and gratitude. We talked for a while about life and what it means to be an artist, and I got to hear her tell me stories about her path in music. She shared a story about feeling like the music she was making wasn’t seen by others as something that was working in “country” so she just let go of the expectations and set herself free in the music. Made a bluegrass record. And then an alternative record. And whatever else was creatively calling to her.

As a pivotal member of the Country Music Hall of Fame, it made me laugh to think people once doubted whether she “fit” within a genre. I asked if she ever felt like an outsider. She said she never really saw it that way. She just kept working and following the music wherever it took her next.

That lit a fire in me. One I think I’ll always return to.

I hope when I’m her age, I’m still playing live music and filling my soul with the joy of it—whatever that looks like. In empty bars, to park bench patrons, in soup kitchens, velvet theaters, or sold-out venues. I just believe I’ll still be loving the sacredness of sharing music.

I can see myself with long silver hair, playing in my weird open tunings. I hope I’m surrounded by people who truly know and love me. I hope I’ve figured out more about love. I hope I radiate earned confidence. I hope I’m proud of the ways I’ve fought for myself and what I believe in. I hope I eat ice cream all the time. I hope I still want to travel and learn. I hope I’m involved in initiatives supporting homelessness and women’s health. I hope I wear comfy shoes. I hope I laugh constantly. I hope I drive with the windows down. I hope I paint. I hope I play piano. I hope I carry myself like Emmylou does—with an attitude of trust in the art flowing through me, knowing it will lead me where I’m meant to go. Never seeing a closed door as an ending, but a redirection toward a more true version of myself.

Creatively, Morning Pages are incredibly helpful. But even more than that—on a human level—I think it’s just good to have a safe place to say anything and everything. To let it out and then turn the page. To journal about what your 80-year-old self would be saying to you now.

If any of you feel inspired to journal your own letter, I’d love to hear it. Just wanted to share a little piece of mine with you below.

From one wandering soul to another, I hope you know you’re loved exactly as you are.

<3 T

Dear Younger Me,

Life is so beautiful. And tragic too. It all comes and goes, and we get to experience it. And it all works out—I swear.

Thank you for listening to your body. For taking care of it so that at 80, we can still live like a well-behaved rockstar. I know you’re carrying a heavy weight right now, but the good news is—you do let go. Eventually, you learn to worry less. And forgive yourself. And let your antennas for everybody else rest. And have more fun. It takes time, but that means the trust in yourself is real and earned.

The work you’re putting in to take up more space is so very worth it.
Keep writing.
Quit asking permission.
Make a mess. Be loud.
Let yourself off the hook.
Tell people how you honestly feel.
Connect to your faith—it’s always waiting, no matter how far you run.
Take trips just for the fun of it.
Have more parties.
Let people down sometimes.
Enjoy your alone time.
Let people love you.
Trust your gut, and the rest will come.
Your time here is meant to be enjoyed. You deserve to enjoy it.
Freedom feels good. Just you wait.

I love you. I’m proud of you.

—80-Year-Old You