I’ve developed a bit of a cheeky quirk. Okay, fine, it’s slightly (very) neurotic and a little (very very) ridiculous. Maybe it's a tad endearing, depending on how you look at it. I’ll let you decide. Anyway, before I start a new book, TV show, or movie, I always read the last chapter or look up the plot on Wikipedia. I know, I know! Stop looking at me like that! I literally just told you a couple of days ago that I love spoilers! Just pause and hear me out. The suspense, the UNKNOWN? Stop. It’s just too much for me. It’s not even really about taking the element of surprise away. It’s more about the safety of knowing how it all ends. I’ve tried to kick this habit; I really have! I make this little vow to myself: ‘Lau(ra), do NOT spoil the ending!!!!!!’ And then… five minutes later, I find myself flipping to the last page, scrolling through plot summaries, desperately searching for that sweet, sweet relief of knowing exactly what’s going to happen like a fucking gremlin. Maybe it’s a metaphor for how I navigate life. I wanna know what’s coming next, to see the destination before the adventure even starts. Besides, life doesn’t give you spoilers (or does it?), so I’ll take them wherever I can get them. Trust me, this is an entirely rational system. I can already hear you saying, 'But that ruins the whole point!' And, okay, duly noted. In fact, I’ll fold and tell you that after watching My Old Ass, I think I’m ready to quit the spoiling game cold turkey. Can’t say the same about my twelve-step #stopvaping plan. I digress. 

 

Now, I’ll do my best to, with as few spoilers as possible (in case you haven’t already seen it, in which case– Heller? Go now!!!) introduce you to my new friend Elliot. She’s just trying to vibe on her eighteenth birthday when––mid-mushroom trip–– her 39-year-old self makes a surprise appearance. Instead of delivering straightforward answers, she gives sarcastic life lessons and one very blunt warning: stay away from Chad. She reminds Elliot’s Current Ass of something painfully obvious yet incredibly elusive: the only thing you can’t get back is time. It’s a hard pill for her to swallow because she is constantly looking for shortcuts and reassurance that things will work out exactly as planned. Elliot realizes she may have to (gasp) trust the timing of her life. Does that remind you of anyone? 

 

The last time I felt this moved by a visual masterpiece was… three days ago after I watched Nobody Wants This for the fourth time, top to bottom (iykyFUCKINGk). But that is neither here nor there– focus, people! Watching Elliot, with all her quirks and anxieties, wrestle with the possibility that not everything needs a spoiler felt like a subtweet. Minus the sub part. Just a straight-up, raw dog pointing of fingers. She was practically double-dog-daring me to look in the mirror and admit it: that I, too, would like 39-year-old me to show up at my apartment (sans mushrooms because psychedelics freak me out) and give me a play-by-play of how freaking awesome my life is. Seeing her struggle to hold steady without those “spoilers” was like someone shaking my shoulders, telling me, 🥰✨ bitch, you better listen to this part✨ 🥰. Also, I should mention that this movie was the first time I didn’t spoil the ending for myself. Also also, I hope My Old Ass’ ass is fucking fat. And if it is? I’ll do my best to remember you when I’m famous.  

 

Here’s a hilariously ironic life event parallel: I saw a psychic two weeks ago. No, not one of the ones who say you’re plagued with generational curses that will cost $1,500 to remove (don’t ask). This psychic was fucking legit. Her energy wrapped around me like a warm hug, instantly putting me at ease. Her speech had a gentle, maternal quality, each word delivered with a soothing Southern inflection. She had a way of making me feel completely seen as if she knew exactly what I needed before I even said a word—it was the kind of presence that made me feel both safe and understood, as if I didn’t need to explain myself. Relying solely on my name and birth date, she was able to unearth things about my life you wouldn’t find on the first page of a Google search, down to the minute details –– names, dates, places, and circumstances. The accuracy of what she told me was both spectacular and absolutely bizarre. But here’s the strangest part: everything she said felt more like a confirmation of what I had already suspected, like speaking to a personified version of my own intuition. In her sweet Southern drawl, she opened our call by telling me, with a soft chuckle, that she had a feeling I already held the answers to every question I was about to ask—like she was simply here to remind me of what I hadn’t yet admitted to myself. Each piece of information she shared felt like puzzle pieces snapping into place, affirming everything I’d been hesitant to fully trust until that moment. 

 

We talked pretty extensively about one situation in particular. You see, there is something I want, like really really really want, to work out. I want it to work out so badly that I think I’d willingly give up the opportunity to use a hall pass on Justin Bieber for it (bold, I know). Sorry, did I mention I really want it to work out? Anyway, I listened intently as the picture her words painted formed what I would deem the best possible outcome. There I sat, smug as a bug, as she assured me it was all currently falling into place. Side note: I’ve now incorporated ‘per my psychic’s timeline’ into my everyday dictionary rotation. In case you're wondering, those are, but not limited to: slay, sharp left turn, pause, fail, and my personal favorite…. IN AN ELECTION YEAR?! Anyway, amidst all the good news, she cautioned me in her sugary, with just a hint of twang voice: there’s nothing you can do to fuck it up, hun. But you can delay it with overthinking and the need to control the outcome. Just trust the timing of your life and let it happen. Seems easy enough, right?  

 

Wrong! Despite what she impressed upon me, I still find myself internally bristling—like, what if I could speed it along? What if I could know it would all work out without having to do this whole “patience” thing? My Old Ass hit in all of the right places because it runs the gamut of facing those exact frustrations: the urge to control, the impatience to skip over the hard parts, and the maddening uncertainty of life itself. The irony, of course, is that I’m learning exactly what Elliot does: some things can’t be skipped over or outsmarted. Watching Elliot wrestle with her curiosity about Chad—this supposed disruptor of her plans—felt like holding up a mirror. The warning to stay away from him isn’t just about avoiding a mistake; it’s about understanding that maybe the unknown is supposed to challenge and change us. And here I am, being told that it’s safe to trust, to let things unfold without needing to see the end first. Just like Elliot, I’m facing the fact that some journeys have to be experienced fully to mean anything at all. That rushing usually ends up taking longer in the long run. Yes, I know! I’m meant to be releasing! So, that’s precisely what I’m going to do.  

 

It’s glaringly obvious that what I write is, by almost unconscious design, a collection of insights and knowledge I wish that my younger asses could have been armed with. Whether here or handwritten in secrecy, each piece I write feels like a quiet note tucked away for past versions of me who were desperate for something real, for advice that didn’t sound nice but actually meant something. It’s all a bridge between then and now as if I’m archiving the wisdom I only earned by stumbling through the messes firsthand. And maybe it’s my need for reassurance and spoilers that drives me to turn my hindsight into guideposts, small markers I would’ve clung to had I known they existed.

 

There is just so much I wish I could tell her. The unknown has always felt like a loose thread that needs to be tied up now, not later. And yet, in all of the ways I’d jump at the opportunity to tell my Younger Ass how far we’ve come, I wonder: if my Current Ass seems to know with complete certainty that My Old Ass will have the life I’ve always dreamed of–– would I even be ready to receive it?

 

I guess there’s a reason hindsight comes only after we’ve lived it all. So much so that if healing were really that simple and linear, I’d be out of things to write about. I’m not gonna give you lip service bullshit about the importance of being present because I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that I would take that advice with a grain of salt (sorry!). Instead, I think it’s more about finding a way to live alongside the messiness, not constantly trying to iron it out. If I could reach back and hand my younger self all the clarity I have now, it wouldn’t have stuck—not until she lived through every chaotic, beautiful, nonsensical moment. If granted the opportunity, I would just tell her to continue nurturing that heart of ours that resides right at the fold of our sleeve – the one that loves loud and without apology. And as for my current self? I don’t know that I’m 100% ready to receive whatever it is I’m calling in, but I do trust my Current Ass as she continues to put herself on the line for it. Lau(ra) Peña has never been one to take no for an answer, after all.

 

Since we’ve previously established that I’m never truly sure what version of you will be taking in my reflections, this is the last time I’ll offer you that caution. Wherever you are, I just hope you feel at home here–– I hope these words feel like a place you can return to, where you’re always welcome. Maybe that’s what all this writing, reading, and spoiling really comes down to: creating a sense of security in the words, the mess, and the to-be-determined. I’ll keep leaving these messages for us both in case we ever need to remember that each version of us is just trying to do their best. We just have to trust that, somehow, we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. So, I’ll address the parting sentiments I’m only marginally qualified to give to every version of my cute little ass– past, present, and future.  

 

I’m coming to learn that all life really is, is a game of catch and release. To sit with the ambiguity, the occasional heartache, and—dare I say it—the thrill of not knowing. Maybe I’ll never fully drop my obsession with spoilers, but I’m coming to accept that the best parts of the story aren’t the ones I can predict. I can catch glimpses of what might be, tiny comforts that remind me I’m on the right path, but then I have to let them go. After all, the only thing we can’t get back is time, right? Every minute spent clinging to certainty, bracing myself for the next twist, is time lost to living it fully, to embracing the mystery for what it is. I have to trust that each version of me will find her way, with or without a roadmap. Because maybe the spoiler I was looking for all along was just this: it’s okay to let go a little. What’s meant for me will find its way, no matter how hard I try to script it. I can chart my own course, knowing that I’ll end up exactly where I’m supposed to be—not because I held on tight, but because I had the courage to release. What’s meant for me will find its way, probably at the exact moment I least expect it—like when I’m busy obsessing over something irrelevant or rehearsing for my sold-out stadium show in the shower. Bonus points if it catches me before I hit rock bottom.
 

We made it, dirty sluts! That release felt orgas....  This honesty thing is no joke. Even though sharing all of this with you feels like standing naked on stage while I rap Headlines by Drake, the gratitude I feel for those of you who care enough to read what I write always outweighs the wave of nerves that hit when my words inevitably belong to you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for allowing this part of me into your little universe. 

 

Big Hug, 

Lau