Years ago, I wrote a letter to myself from my future self. It’s handwritten and folded up to the size of a notecard. I found and read it when packing to move a year and a half ago and since then it’s been resting in a bin in the attic.
The exercise of picking an older, wiser me—mid 60’s to early 70’s—led to a cool, enjoyable visual: me with long-ish gray wispy hairs, in from a beach visit. Flowy, comfortable clothes, a thin frame, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Because she knew my journey’s bumps, she was as empathetic as a blazing sun in August.
Perspective is hard, if not impossible. I’m me now, being, breathing, living. It’s only by stepping into the past or imagining my future that I get perspective on now.
If my future self were writing to me today, what would she tell me I don’t need to carry so tightly?
Where am I denying myself collapse, rest, or softness because I believe I shouldn’t need it?
I’m not looking for clarity or closure. I’m letting the questions exist the way the note did—folded small, tucked away, waiting. Sometimes just naming the shape of a question is enough to loosen the grip of the moment.
I can think about them without resolving them.
That feels like its own kind of care.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 