A Letter to Self: Ava Clark on Growing Pains and the Beauty of Uncertainty
BEEDIE LUMINARIES — In this vulnerable letter to self, SHINE Alumna Ava Clark writes to her past and future selves, reflecting on the incredible and equally awkward growing pains of her post-secondary and early adult years.
Like many other twenty-somethngs, Ava elegantly grapples with the frustrations and beauty of explaining to others where her path is meant to lead. Through her reflections, Ava thoughtfully illustrates the value of not knowing, and how uncertainty allows for the exploration of different avenues, new opportunities, and unexpected meetings.
Read Ava’s letter below.
Dear Ava,
I’m writing to you from the ocean, where you have always felt the most at home. The sky is covered in swathes of grey, but somewhere above, you know the sun is there waiting to hold your face again. I’m writing to remind you of what you’ve done, who you’ve had to become to get here, and why—even in moments of fear and uncertainty—there is no reason to be afraid of what’s next.
You have had several significant moments in your life when everything ahead of you felt inconceivable. Do you remember starting your last year of high school, unsure of what you wanted to do next? That uncertainty was completely fine, of course—but instead of lingering in it, you took action. You researched schools across the country, sought out scholarships, and applied to opportunities you never thought would work out. It turns out you were accepted to every university you applied to and awarded a life-changing scholarship. Beyond funding your bachelor’s degree, it offered something just as valuable: community and resources.
When your chosen university called for moving to a new city, you leaned into it with curiosity, determination and a healthy bit of skepticism. In your first year, your room for rent fell through just ten days before you were meant to move across the ocean. You lived with a difficult roommate/canine combo, then moved in with a stranger you met on Facebook—who, unexpectedly, became one of the oddest joys you could have imagined. You endured that first year of university with big feelings about family and self, while diving into a field of study that was entirely new to you.
Do you remember boarding a plane to cross over 7,000km to live in a foreign country alone for six months? You left everything familiar behind, carrying big hopes and even bigger questions. There were so many things you had to do in order to make that experience happen. You had been working part-time almost nonstop since you were fourteen and discovered one unexpected advantage of your ADHD: access to government grant funding. Do you remember checking into your hostel in Rotterdam, dragging your heavy suitcase up the world’s narrowest, creakiest stairs because there was no elevator? Then after your dogbarking- alarm suitemate left, you woke up to a mouse climbing the curtain beside your head? Not a great welcome to your new city. The first weeks were lonely, strange and bureaucratic. But as always, time passed. Before you could have guessed it, you found people who felt like home. You met individuals your imagination could not have conjured, laughed more than maybe ever before, learned more about who you want to be, and added to your growing library of stories. It’s becoming expansive. 😉
You applied for a co-op in your last semester and were given the opportunity to try a kind of design work you never would have pursued otherwise. Did you enjoy it? Not really—but that wasn’t the point. You gained experience. You committed yourself to a graduation project that allowed a five-year-old idea to finally take form, even while holding more uncertainty than clear decisions. That took bravery—especially as it meant going against the grain of your peer group.
Though incomplete by your own standards, you presented a thoughtful, engaging concept that people genuinely enjoyed interacting with. A stranger even searched for you to reach out afterward to share how much it resonated with them—something you never expected. You poured countless hours into the final stages, spending nearly every day on campus for a month to make everything work.
Four years later, you graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Interaction Design with a minor in Social Practice and Community Engagement. While it can sometimes be difficult to explain this path to others, you know you invested your time in something meaningful—something whose full use is still unfolding. There is plenty of time for that.
The years ahead are likely to be among the most uncertain, challenging, and curious of your life. There is so much you know now, and even more that you don’t—and that’s normal. That’s okay. You have already done things you once could only dream of, and there is still a vast world waiting for you. Sometimes, when you’re too busy staring at the catapult, you forget that its purpose is to launch you forward.
You’re living in a quirky house now, probably with too many people, but it’s filled with laughter, tea, pastries, and solidarity. You once journaled about wanting exactly this. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners have already echoed through these squeaky walls. You’ve met new people who feel like old loved ones, reminding you that what you need from others always finds its way back to you. Love will always find you when you need it.
You are not floating through life waiting for arms to catch you. You are living it.
With so much admiration,
Ava
Thank you, Ava.
