A Love Letter to My Worst Decisions

Today was one of those aggressively ordinary, monotonous days that make you feel like you've been trapped in a time loop. The sun was shining, nothing was happening, and I was doing what any civilized person does when bored: aimlessly scrolling through my camera roll. That was until I zoomed in on a selfie and discovered two brand-new, fully formed wrinkles. Fantastic. Peak living for a 22-year-old woman — or girl, depending on how much of an adult I actually feel like on any given Tuesday.

My immediate response was pure, unadulterated panic. Were those always there? Is my face caving in? I frantically audited every photo in my gallery going back to 2021. Nope. Fresh off the press. To instantly suppress the creeping anxiety that I was decaying in real time, I did what I've done best since I was 16: I pulled up social media and began doom-scrolling. Suppressing my emotions via screen time is basically my longest-standing relationship.

Speaking of being 16, that was the year I bought my very first phone. And when I say I bought it, I mean I orchestrated a minor financial heist.

It was a regular afternoon, and my mom asked me to come curtain shopping with her, mostly because I was the only person in the household who understood how to operate an ATM. I withdrew her money, handed it over, and off we went. Two hours into watching her debate between twenty identical shades of beige, a stroke of chaotic genius hit me.

I sneaked away to the ATM, withdrew a fresh stack of cash, and marched straight into a local electronics shop. I bought a brand-new phone for ₹7,000, added a ₹100 tempered glass screen guard, a ₹200 clear plastic cover, and ₹200 wired earphones. Ah, 2018 — a magical time when you could buy an entire tech setup for the price of a modern fancy coffee.

I instantly deleted the bank transaction SMS, shoved the phone into my pocket, tossed the box into a random trash can, and ran off to my best friend's house nearby. I texted my mom that I was just hanging out at my friend's place — she had no idea I had just committed bank fraud in broad daylight.

When I showed my friend the shiny new phone and confessed what I'd done, her face went from pure excitement to absolute horror, mixed with a tiny bit of respect.

For three whole days, I lived like a secret agent. I used free Wi-Fi, lurked on Facebook, and texted my boyfriend at the time, who was 22. (Yes, I had severe daddy issues and a penchant for older guys, but that's a therapy session for another day.)

Looking back at my 16-year-old self, man... I actually miss that crazy girl. She was delusional, hilarious, and brimming with unearned confidence. This was a girl who would put on a full face of glam — contour, eyeliner, the works — just to walk down the street to the local momos ka thela. She snuck out to her best friend's house so often that her friend's mom stopped treating her like a guest and started assigning her chores: "Since you're here again, go clean the room and pick up milk on your way back."

She knew that whenever her mother eventually found out about her antics, she would be utterly obliterated. But her philosophy was bulletproof: better to have fun first and get yelled at later, than to sit at home doing nothing and still get lectured about the past or future anyway. She was a master of living in the moment.

People always talk about the cliché, "Your 16-year-old self would be so proud of who you are today." Honestly? I completely disagree. I'm the one who's proud of her. She did a fantastic job squeezing every drop of joy out of a chaotic household. She made a ton of terrible choices and knew it, but she carried zero regrets.

Now, at 22, I sit here overthinking every text, second-guessing every choice, worrying about my new wrinkles, and overanalyzing a future I have zero clue how to navigate.

Maybe I need to take a page out of my 16-year-old book again. Minus the bank fraud, of course.