Dear Future Us, 

I hope you’re reading this somewhere peaceful. Maybe at a desk that isn’t shaking because one leg is shorter than the others, like the one in our office now.

Maybe in a space that smells like a candle you didn’t get from the clearance aisle and you can’t burn it for too long because it starts crackling and popping.

Maybe in a life where the Wi-Fi doesn’t crash or a family member isn’t calling in a crisis the moment you have something due. Wherever you are, I hope you’re breathing easier than I am right now.

I’m writing from a chapter where everything feels a little uncertain. A little heavy. A little like the world expects too much from someone who still forgets to eat breakfast half the time. I know you remember this version of me. The one who tries so hard to hold everything together even when her hands are shaking.

The one who keeps going even when she doesn’t know how she’s doing it. I wonder who you’ve become. I pray you’re softer than the world taught you to be. I pray your voice is stronger, not harder. I hope you learned that rest isn’t a reward, it’s a right. I hope you’re not carrying guilt for choosing yourself. I hope you finally understand that you deserve a life that doesn’t feel like a constant apology. Right now I’m trying to grow in places I never expected. Trying to forgive people who may never say sorry. Trying to build something stable out of pieces that keep shifting. The truth is, healing while surviving school should count as a full-time job. Nobody tells students that life won’t pause just because you have a discussion post due at noon. Nobody warns you that sometimes your heart and your GPA will fall apart at the same time. Sometimes, your boyfriend pisses you off and you have to keep a straight face because you’re in class. But I hope you’re past that now. Not because life magically became perfect, but because you learned how to hold yourself better. I hope you learned how to be proud of your slow progress. I hope you found peace in the timing of your life instead of comparing it to everyone else’s highlight reel. Do you still doubt yourself? It comes with life, but I hope not.

But if you do, I hope you remember this: you are the product of every version of me that kept going. Every exhausted morning. Every quiet night. Every moment I could have given up but didn’t. You’re not reading this because life was easy. You’re reading this because we survived what tried to break us. I hope you didn’t forget how far that actually is. I also hope you laugh more. Like real laughter, not the tired exhale you do when a man bothering you on the street says something “funny,” and you’re just trying to get out of there. Or the laugh you do before you start looking around for the imaginary camera because this just can’t be real life.

I hope you still believe in joy, even if softly.

I hope you still believe in love, even if it took its time. I hope you still see God’s fingerprints in the small things. And I really, truly hope you’re proud of me. Because I’m trying. I don’t always get it right. I don’t always feel strong. Sometimes I crumble. Sometimes I disappear for a while. Sometimes I forget how to start again. But I always do. And I hope when you look back, you remember this version of you wasn’t weak. She was rebuilding herself quietly. Future me, if you ever feel lost, come back to this moment. Come back to me. Come back to the girl who didn’t know what the future held but kept walking anyway. You owe her your softness. Your gentleness. Your forgiveness. Your joy. I can’t wait to meet you. 

With love,
This version of us