Hi, future me.

If you’re reading this, congratulations. You survived… well, this. Whatever “this” was. The waiting, the hoping, the spiraling, the dramatic monologues delivered to the dogs, the snacks eaten at questionable hours, the emotional support coloring pages, the “I’m fine”s that fooled no one.

I’m writing this from a season that feels like a long, shaky inhale. You remember it. You lived it. You probably still have the stress‑induced forehead wrinkle from it (but maybe not cause I have a good moisturizer now.)

Right now, I’m doing that thing where I try to be calm and grounded, but my brain is basically a squirrel on espresso. I’m trying to trust the process, but the process is taking its sweet time, and I am not known for my patience. I’m trying to be hopeful without getting ahead of myself, which is like asking me to walk past a dog without saying “hi.” Impossible.

I hope you look back at me with kindness. I hope you remember how hard I tried — even on the days when “trying” looked like lying on the couch under a blanket while Lenny judged me from across the room and Gilbert attempted to solve my emotional distress by sitting directly on my chest.

I hope you’re proud of how you handled this chapter. Not because it was graceful (it wasn’t) or because you stayed calm (you didn’t), but because you kept going. You kept loving. You kept showing up for your people, even when your own heart felt like a half‑written sentence.

I hope you didn’t lose your softness. The world tries so hard to sand that down, but you’ve always held onto it like a stubborn little Hufflepuff badger clutching a blanket. I hope you still laugh at your own jokes. I hope you still find magic in the mundane — the way James hands you snacks without being asked, and the way your family group chat is 90% chaos.

And listen — if things turned out beautifully, pause. Really pause. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself be proud. Let yourself celebrate without immediately worrying about the next thing. You deserve that joy.

If things turned out differently than you hoped, I know you handled it with the same stubborn heart and quiet courage that has carried you through every plot twist so far. You’ve never once stayed down for long. You’re basically emotionally elastic at this point.

Wherever you are, I hope you’re still writing. Still noticing the tiny details. Still turning your life into stories that make people feel seen. Still choosing humor even when things are messy. Still choosing softness even when things are hard.

And I hope — truly — that you look back at me, the version sitting here typing this with a knot in her stomach and hope in her chest, and think:

She did her best. She kept going. She made it here.

Keep wandering, future me. Keep loving big. Keep choosing joy, even when it feels like work.

—Kelsey