Twelve years ago, everything changed.
I was 19, fresh out of high school, full of dreams but short on direction. Life in my small town felt like a holding pattern—same streets, same faces, same conversations. I was itching for something more, something bigger.
That summer, I worked at the local diner, flipping burgers and pouring coffee for regulars who tipped in loose change and stories. One customer, though, stood out. Mr. Reynolds. He was old, quiet, and always sat by the window with a worn leather notebook. Every Thursday, without fail, he ordered black coffee and apple pie. No conversation, just the scrape of his fork against the plate and the occasional scribble in his book.
One slow afternoon, curiosity got the better of me. I refilled his coffee and asked, “What do you write about?”
He looked up, surprised. After a moment, he smiled. “Life. Regrets. Lessons I wish I’d learned sooner.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, got any advice for someone who’s still figuring it all out?”
He nodded, pulled a folded piece of paper from his notebook, and handed it to me. “Twelve years from now, you’ll either thank yourself or wish you’d started today. Choose wisely.”
I didn’t think much of it at the time. I stuffed the paper in my apron pocket and forgot about it.
Life moved on. I left town for college, chasing dreams I couldn’t quite define. There were wins—new friendships, first love, a job that paid just enough to scrape by. And there were losses—heartbreak, missed opportunities, moments when I almost gave up.
But through it all, that phrase haunted me. Twelve years from now…
So, little by little, I made choices I hoped my future self would thank me for. I stayed up late studying for exams I wanted to skip. I applied for jobs I didn’t feel qualified for. I called my mom every Sunday, even when life felt too busy.
Twelve years passed faster than I imagined.
Last week, I was back in town, clearing out my childhood room after my parents decided to downsize. In an old shoebox of keepsakes, I found a crumpled piece of paper. Mr. Reynolds’ note.
I smiled, tears prickling my eyes. I never saw him again after that summer. I heard he passed away a few years later, quietly, without much fuss—just like he’d lived. But his words lived on, shaping choices I didn’t realize were pivotal until now.
So here I am, twelve years older, not everything figured out, but proud of the path I chose. And if someone asked me for advice today, I’d pass on Mr. Reynolds’ wisdom without hesitation:
Twelve years from now, you’ll either thank yourself or wish you’d started today. Choose wisely.
