#Letterstomy40self

Right vote or wrong?

Dear Forty-Year-Old Me,

There was a small moment in school that has followed me far longer than it had any right to.

We were children, really — standing in a classroom turned into a polling booth, paper ballots in our hands, the seriousness of democracy explained to us with more enthusiasm than understanding. A friend of mine was running for House President. She was kind, familiar, someone I laughed with. Someone who felt safe.

But I didn’t vote for her.

I voted for someone else. A boy. Someone who, in my young mind, seemed to have more potential. More confidence. More leadership energy. The kind that filled a room. The kind adults nodded approvingly at.

At the time, it felt like a rational choice. Almost mature. I told myself I was being fair, objective, smart. I wasn’t voting emotionally; I was voting wisely.

And yet — this is the part that stays with me — I remember the faint discomfort. The quiet knowledge that I had chosen capability over connection. Optics over loyalty. An idea of leadership over a living, breathing person who trusted me.

Nothing dramatic happened after. No confrontation. No heartbreak scene. School moved on the way school always does. But something lodged itself inside me that day.

It was one of my first lessons in how easily we are taught to admire promise over presence.