A Letter to my Younger Self: Before the Distance

SEATTLE - Dear John,

It’s the summer of 2022.

Right now, you think the biggest change in your life is about to be high school. You think your world is about to become grades, hockey, golf, fitting in, and trying to survive at a school where you know nobody.

You’re wrong.

The biggest change in your life is sitting downstairs right now, probably laughing at something stupid, asking to play Xbox, or begging you to watch hockey with him.

And you don’t even realize you’re running out of time.

Three years from now, Drew is going to leave.

Not for college. Not after graduation when everyone expects life to change. Not at the end of childhood when people tell you to prepare yourself.

No.

He’s going to leave suddenly.

The little brother you thought you had four more years with is going to pack his life into boxes and move to a tiny town in Alexandria, Minnesota to chase his hockey dream.

Grandma and Grandpa are going to move out there with him. Mom and Dad are going to buy a house there. And one day, without warning, you’re going to realize something that makes your stomach drop:

You are never really going to live with your brother again.

Not like before.

Not in the way that mattered.

And when that realization hits, it is going to break something in you.

Because right now, you take him for granted.

You think there will always be another ride to the rink. Another early morning in the summer playing Xbox. Another argument in the kitchen. Another late-night hockey game on TV. Another car ride with him in the backseat making fun of your driving.

You think those moments are permanent.

They’re not.

One day, you’re going to walk into the house and feel how quiet it is.

Quiet in a way that hurts.

His room will be empty. His voice won’t echo down the hallway. Dinner will feel incomplete.

You’ll keep expecting him to come home from practice until you remember he’s halfway across the country.

And every time you remember, it’s going to feel like losing him all over again.

You’re going to miss things you never thought mattered.

The sound of him walking downstairs.

Him annoying you in the car.

Him sitting next to you watching hockey.

Him showing up to your games.

Him just… being there.

That’s the part nobody tells you about growing up. Nobody warns you that someday the people who built your childhood with you slowly disappear from your everyday life.

There’s no final moment where you realize it’s ending. It just happens quietly until one day the house doesn’t feel like the same house anymore.

And the worst part?

You won’t realize how important he was until after he leaves.

You’ll spend years focused on yourself. Your schedule. Your stress. Your future. SATs. ACTs.

Hockey. School. Friends.

Meanwhile, Drew will always just be there.

Your biggest fan.

Your biggest rival.

Your built-in best friend.

The kid who understood you without needing an explanation.

Then suddenly, he’s gone.

In the fall of 2024 you’ll watch him start making a name for himself in Seattle hockey. You’ll hear people talk about bigger opportunities. You’ll go to his games and cheer him on without realizing you’re watching the final season of your normal life together.

Then Minnesota happens fast.

Tryouts.

Phone calls.

NorthStar Christian Academy.

House shopping.

Packing.

Leaving.

And before your brain can even process it, senior year starts without him.

You’ll drive to school alone after spending an entire year driving him too.

You’ll hear O’Dea kids ask where he went.

You’ll come home and see Mom and Dad on the phone with him almost every night.

You’ll watch his games through a screen instead of from the stands.

And for the first time in your life, your best friend won’t be down the hall anymore.

You’re going to miss him in ways you never expected.

Not just because he’s your brother.

Because he became part of who you are.

There’s going to be nights where he comes home to visit, and you’ll feel pressure you can’t explain. You’ll want him to see how much better you’ve gotten. You’ll want him to be proud of you. One night he’ll come watch you play, and you’ll play horribly.

Later that night, alone in your room, you’re going to cry.

Not because of hockey.

Because all you wanted was for your best friend to see you succeed.

That’s how much he means to you.

And the hardest part of all is realizing how many moments you wasted because you thought there would always be more time.

So listen carefully.

Go downstairs.

Play the game.

Go to the morning skate.

Stay up watching hockey with him.

Talk to him in the halls at O’Dea.

Let him sit in the passenger seat longer.

Laugh harder.

Make more memories that seem ordinary, because someday those ordinary moments will become priceless.

One day, you would give anything just to hear him walk through the front door again.

One day, you’ll realize childhood didn’t end all at once.

It ended when your brother left home.

And no matter how far apart life takes you, no matter how many years pass, no matter how old you both get

he will always be your little brother,

and always be your best friend.