Letters to Myself

Dear Future Me,

I’m 10 years old right now. I like mangoes, hate math, and want to be an astronaut.

You’re probably taller and cooler and don’t cry when people yell. I hope you still draw. I hope you don’t forget about me.

P.S. Please don’t wear weird clothes.

Me, from the pink notebook under my bed.

I didn’t know I’d be reading that letter twelve years later, in a tiny apartment with dishes in the sink and bills on the table. I didn’t know I’d become the “future me” she wrote to.

When I was ten, I thought adulthood meant confidence, money, and knowing what to say at the right time.

It doesn’t.

Adulthood is crying quietly in public bathrooms.

It’s Googling “how to boil rice” at 22.

It’s smiling when your boss talks down to you — because rent is due.

It’s forgetting your childhood dream and then remembering it at 2 a.m., and wondering if it’s too late.

Dear Future Me,

I’m 14. Today I got my first pimple and my first heartbreak.

People are confusing. Friends feel fake. I smile too much when I’m uncomfortable.

I hope one day I won’t care what people think.

Also, do we ever get a dog?

Me, with a cracked heart and glitter pen.

Fourteen-year-old me didn’t know we’d carry her softness all the way to adulthood. That we’d still blush in crowded rooms. That we’d fake confidence like a magician with a frayed deck.

She didn’t know healing takes years. Or that sometimes, love doesn’t look like romance — it looks like a friend staying on the phone until the panic fades.

Dear Future Me,

I’m 18 now. I just graduated.

Everyone’s asking what I’m doing next. I say “college,” but I’m scared. I don’t know who I am without structure.

I hope you’re proud of me.

Even if I take a detour. Even if I fail.

Me, from the back of the graduation program.

I want to go back and tell her this:

You don’t have to be certain.

You don’t have to be perfect.

You just have to keep going.

Some days, I reread these letters and wonder what the next one will say.

Maybe I’ll write one today:

Dear Future Me,

It’s okay to still be figuring it out.

It’s okay if you didn’t become everything we imagined.

Just promise me one thing—

Don't forget the girl who believed in you before you knew how to believe in yourself.

With love,

Me.

This is a fictional reflection written in the style of real letters. If you’ve ever felt unsure about your future or quietly proud of how far you’ve come — this one’s for you.