Things My Future Self Tried to Tell Me

You will forget how it felt to be sure of anything.

That’s okay. Certainty is brittle. Wonder bends.

Don’t be afraid of silence.

It is not absence. It is a space where truths grow roots.

You thought the fall would kill you.

It won’t. But it will change how you walk forever.

You will love someone who forgets you too quickly.

Love anyway. The echo is yours to keep.

When the sky turns orange and the birds stop flying,

go underground. Not literally.

Find your breath. It will lead you home.

Do not trust anything that demands you erase yourself to belong.

Even if it’s soft-spoken. Even if it calls itself progress.

There is no prize for enduring quietly.

Scream if you must.

Your voice was made for more than pleasing.

The room you cried in for weeks

will one day smell like lemons and fresh paint.

You won’t even remember what broke you there.

Wear colors that feel like rebellion.

Someone once tried to dull you.

Let them see you shine like a bruise healing.

There will be a day when you forget who you are.

Check your pockets.

The note is still there.

Not all endings are loud.

Some slip through the cracks like old sunlight.

Notice them. Mourn gently.

You will mistake fear for wisdom.

You’ll call it caution.

Call it what it is — a locked door with your name on it.

The memory you keep returning to —

that moment in the rain,

the laughter, the hand —

it was real.

But you’ve already lived it.

Don’t try to crawl back.

You will lose things that felt stitched to your ribs.

You will keep breathing.

That’s not betrayal.

That’s grace.

There will be nights you want to disappear

into quiet pixels and drifting hours.

On those nights, open the window.

The dark still holds you.

Not everyone who walks with you

is meant to stay.

Some are just mirrors —

cracking, glowing, teaching.

You will carry too much for too long.

One day, you’ll place it down.

And forget how heavy it was.

A version of you is already dancing.

Barefoot, forgiven.

She’s not waiting.

She’s hoping you’ll catch up.

Write things down.

Even the foolish bits.

Memory is a messy librarian.

There are mornings ahead

that will feel like birth.

Let them break you open.

Let them make you soft again.

The map you’ve been drawing?

It’s not wrong.

But you’re not where you think you are.

Trust the detour.

You’ll want to go back.

To fix it.

To hold them longer.

To say what burned in your chest.

But forward is the only way through.

Say it now — to the wind, if you must.

The world will ask you to be sharper,

smaller, quieter.

Be wild instead.

Joy will sneak up on you.

Let it.

You don’t owe sorrow your whole body.

Someone will say, “I remember you.”

And you’ll ache with the knowing

that they saw the version of you you tried to bury.

Let her breathe.

The storm will come.

Yes.

But you are not just a house.

You are roots and wind and lightning, too.

You will be misunderstood.

Often.

Don’t translate yourself to fit.

Be fluent in your own truth.

There’s a door you locked once,

with shaking hands and a swallowed sob.

One day, you’ll open it again —

and find the light never left.

Love isn’t always safe.

But it’s always worth trying.

Even if it breaks.

Especially if it breaks.

When it’s all too much,

when you feel like static and thread and ghost —

Place your hand on your chest.

Say:

"I am here."

"I remember."

"I am trying."

That will be enough.

It always has been.