It started with a fleeting thought—a whisper in the back of my mind, persistent and impossible to ignore.
"What would she think of you? What would all of them think of you?"
I was washing dishes when it hit me. It wasn't a grand epiphany or a dramatic breakdown, just the quiet realization that I wasn't living the life I had once dreamed of. The life I promised myself I'd have. At 28, I thought I'd have it all figured out—a clear path, accomplishments to my name, maybe even the kind of happiness that doesn't feel fleeting.
But instead, here I was, scrubbing plates and staring at the peeling wallpaper in my tiny kitchen, wondering how I'd ended up so far from where I wanted to be.
That night, I sat down at my desk with a pen in hand and a blank notebook in front of me. I stared at the page for a long time, unsure of what to write or why I even wanted to write in the first place. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe I just needed to feel like I was doing something.
Eventually, the words started to flow.
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Dear Successful Versions of Me,
Have you been doing well lately? Are you truly happy? Is everything finally falling into place? I wonder if you fulfilled every dream we once whispered to ourselves late at night. Did you become the author we always dreamed we'd be? Did you write books that changed lives, won awards, and left readers breathless?
Or did you find another path? Are you a model now, gracing the covers of magazines with that confidence we always wished we had? A doctor, saving lives and making the world a better place? An actor, captivating audiences with your talent? Or maybe… just maybe, you finally opened that little coffee shop, the one with the soft yellow lights, bookshelves lining the walls, and the smell of fresh pastries wafting through the air.
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I paused, staring at the words I'd written. They felt too honest, too raw. But I couldn't stop. There was so much more I needed to say.
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I can't stop wondering. Did you marry the person we fell in love with so many years ago? Have you traveled the world together, ticking off destinations one by one? Did you finally feel the kind of love we once thought was only written about in novels?
You see, I can't help but write to you because I need to know. I need to understand what it feels like to be you. To wake up each day and live the life I've only ever dreamed of.
Here I am, at 28 years old, and I feel like I've already failed you. The dreams we once had—the ones that filled us with so much hope and excitement—they feel so far away now. I work a stable job, pay my bills, and go through the motions of life. But it's not enough. I know it's not enough.
And yet, I can't blame anyone but myself. The truth is, I've been scared. Scared of failure, scared of rejection, scared of putting myself out there only to realize I wasn't good enough all along. But you—you must've faced those fears and conquered them. You must've looked them in the eye and said, "Not today."
How did you do it? How did you take the steps I was too afraid to take?
I hope you'll forgive me for writing to you like this. I know it's a bit strange—writing letters to versions of myself that may not even exist. But it helps, somehow. It helps to imagine that out there, in some corner of the multiverse, there's a version of me who did everything right. A version of me who didn't let fear hold her back.
I hope you'll indulge me as I write. These letters are my way of reaching out, of connecting with the parts of me I've lost. Maybe, through this connection, I'll find my way back to myself.
With curiosity,
Me
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I set the pen down and leaned back in my chair, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The letter felt like a confession—a raw, unfiltered look at the parts of me I tried so hard to ignore.
As I stared at the page, I wondered if I was being too harsh on myself. Life hadn't been easy, after all. There were moments of triumph, of happiness, even if they felt small in the grand scheme of things. But there were also setbacks—missed opportunities, failed attempts, moments when the weight of it all felt too much to bear.
I thought back to the younger version of me, the one who dreamed so big it was almost laughable. She wanted to be everything—an author, a chef, a designer, an artist, a doctor, a lawyer, an athlete. She believed she could do it all, be it all, if she just worked hard enough.
Somewhere along the way, that belief faded. Life happened, and dreams turned into "maybes" and "what-ifs."
But sitting there, staring at that letter, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe I could still be one of those successful versions of me, or at least a version I could be proud of.
The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
I closed the notebook and set it aside, vowing to write again tomorrow.
For now, it was enough to know that I had taken the first step.
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