To the argument I walked away from, at twenty-six, in a room full of people who were wrong about something I was too tired to explain: you were wrong. I was right. The evidence bore me out in the years that followed. I want this on record, somewhere.
To my grandfather, who died before I was old enough to ask the right questions: I have many questions. I suspect you had more in common with me than either of us would have been comfortable admitting.
To the colleague who told me, in the third year of my career, that I was "not quite right for this kind of work": what kind of work, exactly? I have been wondering for fifteen years what kind of work you meant.
To the idea I abandoned in 2018 because I thought it was too small: it wasn't too small. Nothing is too small. I was wrong about the size of it. I would like to come back to it now.
To the version of myself at twenty-five who was certain: you were not certain. You were performing certainty because you didn't know yet that uncertainty was survivable. It is. It is, in fact, extremely survivable. Most of the important things I know, I know because I was uncertain about them for long enough.
To the years I spent being efficient: you were fine. You got things done. But the years I spent being slow were more interesting, and I wish there had been more of them.
To this moment, which will shortly become the past: I am paying attention. I am here.