I always wondered what I’d do if I met him. I always wondered how I’d act if I met Young Me.

Well, this was my chance to find out.

“What am I doing in this elementary school?” I was thinking. “They tore this place down years ago.”

I looked at my clothes. I was in pajamas. And barefoot. My toenails needed trimming.

I was standing in the old public school. Children’s cardboard-paper creations hung on the walls. Art projects lined the corridor like triumphant little banners. Each student’s name was scrawled onto the paper proudly, some letters backward.

I saw the boy.

He was walking down the hallway. He was going to the drinking fountain.

Remember drinking fountains? Remember when the whole class waited in line to use them? Back in the days before corporations started bottling water and selling it for $8 a pop at gas stations—my father would roll over in his grave.

The little boy was strawberry blond. I say “strawberry blond” because this is how maternal teachers would comfort Young Me whenever some heckler teased me with common redhead nicknames such as, to choose a nickname at random, “Bozo the Clown.”

“Oh, sweetie,” such teachers would say, tucking my tear-stained face into their great bosoms. “You have beautiful strawberry blond hair.”

I never believed them. I thought I was ugly. To be a redhead at that age was the kiss of death. You were different. You were a leper. You were nicknamed “Red” by adults who thought they were original. You were capable of developing a third-degree sunburn in 0.003 seconds.

The little strawberry blond used the white porcelain drinking fountain. He tilted his head and assumed the hydration stance.

And all at once, I saw this boy for who he was.

I saw him not for who he would become. Not for who he wished he was. But for who he was in this exact moment.

I think what I’ve always wanted is attention. More than anything, actually. All kids want attention. Adults do too. Everyone wants attention.

The world operates on attention. Our entire manmade system is fueled by attention. Look at celebrities. They beg for it. Look at politicians. They buy it. Mega-corporations run on it, marketing themselves, spending billions for each “like” and heart emoji.

Why? Why do they need attention?

Because your attention, contrary to what you’ve been told, is your most valuable resource.

Most people think our most valuable resource is time. But it’s not. For what good is time if you waste it paying attention to the wrong things? A body can have all the time in eternity but squander a lifetime paying attention to war, rumors of war, and senseless acts of reality television. What good is life like that?

That’s what Young Me wanted. He wanted attention. The attention of his father. The attention of his friends. To be noticed by others.

His big error, of course, was that gaining attention is an empty pursuit.

The child thought that the more attention he earned, the more he would matter. If his daddy paid enough attention to him, the boy would “feel” valuable. If lots of people liked him, the boy would be worthy.

But that’s not how it works. Value and worth are not earned.

The little boy finished at the drinking fountain. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He turned to go back to his classroom, striding down the hallway.

I wanted to take the child into my arms. I wanted to tell him he was beautiful. He didn’t need the validation of others. Didn’t need acceptance. Didn’t need whatever he was looking for. He already had it. He was already enough. This is how God made him.

I realized tears were leaking down my adult cheeks as I watched his young frame approach.

Then, the boy noticed me.

He stopped. I was a full three feet taller than him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied.

Then he smiled. He took my hand.

“You are already enough,” he said. “You always have been.”

And so, dear reader, have you.