“Messages From the Future Me” – Episode 2

When my future self told me to say yes to compost and worms, I had no idea it would become one of the most important days of my life.

If there’s one thing I never imagined doing on a Saturday morning, it’s voluntarily attending a composting workshop. In the rain. With my mother. Who thinks adding kale to anything makes it a superfood.

So when I got another voice note from Future Me, I groaned.

“Okay, this one matters. Tomorrow, Mom’s going to ask you to go to that gardening class with her. Say yes. Please. You’ll want to say no because you’re tired, or hungover, or caught in another emotional spiral over someone named ‘probably-not-James.’ But say yes anyway.”

I stared at the message for a full five minutes. Because, truthfully? I was planning to say no. I had a long, exhausting list of fake excuses, including “I need to wash my pillowcases” and “I think I’m emotionally allergic to mulch.”

But when Mom called and asked in that hopeful voice, “Sweetheart, the garden center is doing a composting demo! Wanna come with me?” …I paused.

And I said yes.

The Cult of Compost

The class was held at a local nursery that smelled like wet basil and hope. A cheerful woman named Brenda greeted us in an apron covered in carrot illustrations and declared, “Composting is not just throwing trash into a bin—it’s an act of love!”

Love. For banana peels.

My mom, however, was thrilled. She took notes. Asked questions. Bonded with Brenda over the importance of red wiggler worms. And at some point—between the moment I saw someone bring their own personalized compost scoop and the moment Brenda offered me a “decomposition-themed cookie” (???)—something shifted.

I looked over at Mom, laughing, her eyes crinkling like they used to before Dad died, and I realized something:

I hadn’t seen her like this in years.

Not since before the grief settled into her bones and made her speak a little slower. Not since she started saying “I’m fine” a little too quickly. Not since we both became very good at pretending we were okay.

And I almost missed this moment. For what? Netflix and lukewarm coffee?

Future Me Was Right (Ugh)

When I got home that evening, there was another voice note waiting:

“You did good. That was the last time she ever laughed that hard. You’ll remember that day for the rest of your life. Also, you left your sunglasses under the worm bin. Don’t ask how I know.”

I didn’t cry immediately. I made tea. I tried to distract myself by reorganizing my spice rack alphabetically (fun fact: nutmeg sounds like a spice but smells like lost dreams). But then I sat down and replayed the message.

And I lost it.

Because here’s the thing Future Me didn’t say in that voice note—but that I suddenly knew:

Something was coming.

Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for months. But time was ticking in a way I hadn’t wanted to face. The voice note wasn’t about worms or compost. It was a warning disguised as a gift. A reminder to stop saying “next time” when the people I loved asked for my time.

And damn if it didn’t land like a meteor.

Aftermath of a Garden Party

That night, I made a list titled “Say Yes More.” It was messy and written in eyeliner pencil (I couldn’t find a pen), but it included things like:

Say yes to weird classes with Mom

Say yes to soup night with Kevin

Say yes to dancing, even if I look like a confused crab

Say yes to hard conversations I’ve been avoiding

Say yes to taking up space—even when I don’t feel like I deserve to

The next morning, I texted Mom:

“Thanks for dragging me into the Cult of Compost. Let’s do something weird again next week. Love you.”

She replied instantly:

“Let’s adopt a plant together and name it after someone annoying. Brenda suggested ‘Chad.’”

So now, we water Chad the Fern every Tuesday.

💬 Final Voice Note of the Day:

“See? Not all time travel is dramatic. Sometimes it just helps you realize the best moments don’t always come with fireworks. Sometimes, they come with worms, weird cookies, and someone you love laughing over soil pH.”