It’s quiet right now. The fan is humming. There’s the faint sound of rain tapping against the window, the kind that feels like a deep sigh from the sky. I’m curled up on my couch with a warm mug of tea, and for the first time in a while, my mind feels still. Tonight, I’m not writing for an audience or a deadline or even a purpose. I’m writing to you—my future self.
Have you ever paused mid-scroll, mid-life and thought: “I wonder who I’ll be in ten years?” That’s what this is. A letter for the version of me I haven’t met yet.
They say it’s easy to write to your past self—you already know her. You’ve walked in her shoes, made her mistakes, carried her heartbreak. But writing to the future? That’s a whole different kind of vulnerability. It’s an act of hope. It’s a bridge you build with words, connecting this version of you to a version you’ve only dared to imagine.
Hi future me (yes, you)
Wherever you are, I hope the sun feels warmer on your skin and your laughter comes easier. I hope joy finds you in ordinary places—in the smell of fresh bread, the comfort of clean sheets, the pause before your favorite song begins.
I wonder what your life looks like now. Maybe you’ve built the kind of home that feels safe at the end of a long day. Maybe you’ve discovered a version of happiness that isn’t flashy or loud, but steady and deep. Maybe you’ve planted a little herb garden, or learned to make the perfect cup of coffee, or picked up painting again just for the fun of it.
I hope you still believe in slow mornings. In long walks. In spontaneous laughter. In taking breaks without guilt. In pausing to breathe.
I hope you’re still writing—not because you have to, but because it brings you closer to yourself. I hope you still light candles on quiet nights and listen to that one playlist that somehow makes everything feel a little more poetic.
Do you still take photos of sunsets you’ve already seen a hundred times?
Do you still cry at movies you’ve watched more than once?
Do you still speak gently to yourself on the hard days?
And hey, I hope you still love skies—the endless kind that make you feel tiny and free all at once. I hope you still love going out with your favorite person—the one who makes errands feel like little adventures and whose presence still feels like a safe place to land. I hope your favorite thing is still talking with him about everything and nothing.
I hope you’re still the kind of person who glows when someone nurtures your success. And I hope your siblings and Mama still celebrate your wins like they’re their own. I know Papa’s watching from heaven—I hope you still talk to him sometimes, even when it feels quiet.
I hope Kitty—your sweet little cat with the curious eyes—is still curling up beside you. Or if not, that her memory still makes you smile. I hope you still talk to her like she understood every word. Somehow, it always felt like she did.
I hope you still love to gaze at the night sky, thinking of the best moments in your life—and even the worst ones. The ones that made you feel heavy and quiet, the kind that left you crying alone because no one else would understand. I hope you’ve learned to pass through those moments with grace: sometimes smiling through the ache, sometimes letting the tears fall freely. You always missed Papa in your own quiet way. I hope the ache has softened, but the love only grown.
And I hope—deeply—that you’re still someone who loves giving happiness to others. Because the truth is, it always made you happiest, too.
Things I hope you’re holding close:
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The universe doesn’t reward burnout. It celebrates presence.
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Your softness is not weakness—it’s your magic.
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You don’t need to earn rest.
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You are allowed to say “no” without explaining yourself.
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Peace isn’t something you find—it’s something you create.
In my Happy Planner, I wrote these down each month…
Every month, I jot down the biggest thing I learned—and now looking back, these lessons feel like tiny seeds that helped me grow:
- Healing doesn’t always look like progress—it often looks like softness.
- Joy is worth scheduling. Don’t wait for it to appear.
- Not everything needs a response. Silence can be sacred.
- Your presence is enough, even on quiet days.
- Growth feels uncomfortable because you’re stretching into who you’re meant to be.
- You’re allowed to be proud of small things. They matter.
- When you protect your peace, you make room for joy.
- There’s beauty in becoming, even when you’re in-between.
- Saying “no” to one thing is saying “yes” to yourself.
- You can love people and still choose yourself.
- Who you are is not tied to what you produce.
- Let life surprise you. It’s not all meant to be planned.
- You’re doing better than your inner critic admits.
Each one shaped a version of me I hope you still recognize.
Just wondering…
Have you learned to let go of the little things?
Found a new city that feels like home?
Finally taken that trip we dreamt of?
Found your rhythm—the one that feels like dancing?
Even if the answer is no, that’s okay. What matters most is that you showed up for yourself—consistently, imperfectly, wholeheartedly.
And if things are tough when you’re reading this—just breathe. You’ve survived every hard day before this. That says a lot about your strength.
You’ve always had the courage to begin again.
Letting go looks good on you
Comparing your pace to others. Shrinking your joy to fit in. Hustling for worth. Saying sorry for things that don’t need apologies. Overthinking every decision.
I hope you’ve replaced them with:
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Gentleness
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Faith
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Boundaries
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Laughter that echoes
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Friendships that feel like sunlit kitchens and easy Sundays
I hope you no longer tie your worth to your productivity. I hope you’ve learned that peace is enough, and enough is plenty.
Tiny joys I hope you still love
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My soft beige cardigan that feels like a wearable hug.
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This candle that smells like calm and quiet mornings.
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A gratitude journal with goals mention everday.
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Making playlists that match my mood.
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A mug that says “Do Nothing Club.”
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Writing letters I may or may not send.
Have you discovered new comfort rituals by now?
Have you changed your morning playlist or found a new tea that reminds you of stillness?
I hope so. Because change means you’ve grown.
Words I’m writing to remember
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Let the small joys matter.
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Every version of you deserved love.
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Time doesn’t heal everything, but kindness softens the edges.
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You’re allowed to outgrow old dreams.
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Doing your best will look different every day.
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The world is gentler when you are.
These are the words keeping me grounded right now. If you’ve forgotten, that’s okay. That’s why I wrote them down.
Before You Go, Let’s Make This Personal
If you’ve never written a letter to your future self, maybe today is the day to start.
You don’t need perfect words. You just need to begin.
Try this:
Jot down a few truths you want to carry forward.
Write out the tiny rituals that make your days feel soft.
Capture what feels meaningful now—what you hope future-you never forget.
Tuck it into a journal. Or your notes app. Or email it to yourself with a future date.
And when you open it years later, let the words wrap around you like a hug from who you used to be.
Because writing to your future self isn’t just self-reflection—it’s self-devotion. A quiet promise: I’ll keep showing up for you. Always.
Promise me this
Dear future me: I hope you’re proud. Not just of what you’ve done, but how you’ve done it.
With grace. With heart. With so much hope, even when it hurt.
And if things don’t look how we imagined, that’s okay. Life was never meant to be predictable.
It was meant to be lived—softly, fully, with the whole messy, magical, beautiful self you’ve become.
Until we meet again,
Your 23-year-old self
Wrapped in a blanket,
Sipping Tea,
And dreaming big
P.S. Maybe print this one. Keep it in your journal. Or frame a little piece of it. Let it remind you that you’ve always been becoming—and that’s the most beautiful thing of all.
