Thank You Letter to My Past Self
Dear Nic,
Yeah. That's your name. Or at least it is now. I know when you first heard it, it sparked something in you. Ale says it first, and something in you lights up. I can’t wait for the day you let that spark burn bright–your transness, your queerness, your full self lighting the way for others.
One day, you’ll be on a stage in Tampa talking about how art and science need each other. Someone will come up to you after and thank you for being you. Because you were your full self, someone else felt that permission.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is a thank-you note. A note to you, from the future, with the words I wish you’d heard back then.
You always sensed there had to be more to science than what grad school was offering—even if you didn’t have the words yet. You saw it when you ditched that boring retreat to float in the river and laugh with your people. That was the real work. That was the real spark. You were searching for a way to be fully human.
For all of your mistakes, I know you were trying to find your way into being fully human, and I want to thank you for the ways you told the truth to yourself even when things were dark.
And when things got dark, really dark, you didn’t fake it. You said, “Not this.” You didn’t know the way forward, but you knew what wasn’t working. That truth-telling, even in the chaos, even in the pain—that changed everything.
I’m still learning from that move. In a world where everyone was pretending to be fine, you stopped pretending. You collapsed. You fell apart. You did the thing we hate most–you asked for help. You got sober. You started over. And in doing that, you gave us a chance to become what we are now.
As fascism grips our country, I feel everyone trying to pretend that things are normal, to keep on working. It feels bananas. I don't want to keep on working. I want to do meaningful things to keep our communities safe, to bring scientists into collective action.
You were hurting. You showed up drunk to class. Unable to punch at systems, you blew your rage through those closest to you. You medicated yourself from the pain that our body couldn't hold. There was wisdom in that, and when it made life even more unbearable, you stopped and did the even harder thing of realizing the medicine had become poison. And then you walked away from the poison. You did the thing we hate doing most in the world: you reached out for help. You built a life you no longer wanted to run away from.
You were a mess. But I’d choose that mess over staying small and silent.
And this is my search for science as solidarity. I want a science that welcomes our full, awkward, brilliant selves–a reminder that science is wonder, curiosity, and connection. The kind that Robin Wall Kimmerer writes about. A science that touches a tiny moss family and connects it to self, to culture, to humanity. Soft to touch under our fingertips, not a cold detachment under a microscope’s lens.
I’m writing this for you, but I know it’s for others too. There are many of us that yearn for science to be more than it is.
You stubborn creature. You refused to shrink. Even in your lowest moments, you guarded that spark. Even though the pain was fucking unbearable, when all you could do was collapse and fall apart. We needed that. You did what felt impossible and chose that tiny flame. You chose to live.
I don't have all of the answers to what a science of solidarity is. But I do know that it was necessary to re-sensitize myself and bring myself into my full humanity first. As a white person, there was deep, deep work to do to come back into that humanity. So thank you. For quitting what wasn’t working. For being too wild to be shaped by academia. For refusing to become numb. For not buying into the science pageantry. For being messy and lovable and stubborn. For staying true to what mattered—even when you didn’t know what that would lead to.
Because you didn’t let go of yourself, I can help others hold on to themselves too. I can build spaces where we don’t have to pretend, where science and humanity meet. And where maybe, just maybe, we can dream bigger.
I love you. Fiercely. Still.
Nic