If I could give one piece of advice to my 20-year-old self, it would be to sleep.
When I became a mother at the age of 31, I cursed myself for sleeping. I wasted too much sleep in my 20s because I liked being busy and important. I tried to launch a company while bartending to pay rent, knowing that entrepreneurs can't afford to have trivial hobbies like sleeping.
In my early 20s, I would come home from bartending shifts on Sundays at 3 a.m. and start early at 7 a.m. I stayed out too late on Fridays. I stayed out too late most other days because I hadn't yet learned to get hangovers - I stayed out too late most other days.
But I still did it with Gusto when I slept. I enjoyed terrible sleep hours regularly and built up everyone else. It's a luxury I still don't know while sleeping too late on weekends.
In fact, I was always a part of sleeping. In my childhood, I didn't complain about going to bed at 9 p.m. In fact, I even respected it through high school freshmen. My parents were confused. "You don't need to go to bed at 9," they said.
I was that unique child who couldn't sleep. I tried my best to stay awake, but at some point, when other kids would have recovered, my sleeping bag would wave. I fell asleep under the overhead lights as the sugar-fueled chaos ruled around me.
When I spent the night at my middle school friends' house, they always wanted to talk until morning. I could go as long as possible, but eventually fatigue overtook me, and I willingly closed my eyes to sleep, receive messages, and shut down hell. One friend, in particular, would continue through her late-night ramblings, and long pointed silences.