A Letter To Myself
Dear future me,
I hope this letter finds you well.
It’s the beginning of a new year. I mean, I’m a week late, but maybe this will be the year I kick tardiness to the curb and start finishing on time. Or arriving on time. Or anything on time. I hope you’re on time in the future.
The last evening of 2023 I waited to tell a friend a few time zones behind what the future held. Suddenly it was 2024. How anticlimactic. I wasn’t any different. I found myself on the other side of midnight simply as myself with the added weight of expectation. Moreover, I was still in a crowded room full of people I only kinda knew.
“2024 is fine I guess.” I shoved the dread trying to creep out of my heart. “Might even be great.”
“Oh really,” came the skeptical response, “What’s your evidence?”
What evidence did I have? I’m not sure I have any evidence now.
“I’m about to sleep, so that seems like a great thing. And the world hasn’t exploded.” I took a final sip of champagne and tried to smile at the celebration around me.
“I’m glad the world hasn’t exploded. Maybe I’ll join you in 2024 then.”
“You don’t have a choice but to join me anyway. Might as well have a positive perspective.”
“Oof.”
“Happy New Year from the future haha.”
“Happy New Year from the past.”
I sat with the emptiness. I’d gone upstairs crawled into bed and just stared into the ceiling. The tug of war between hopeful commitment and crippling self-doubt waged on.
For two years I’ve felt like I’ve declined. For two years I’ve slowly made less and less art, become more consistently depressed, and failed to do most of the things I’ve said I would do. I expected big things, and then I just stopped growing. Is that supposed to happen? (cue “But Then I Just Stopped Growing” by Cayden Wimple.)
I’m writing to you with a little hope that in the future I’ll be ok. That this year won’t be like every year over and over.
I expect the unexpected. That’s not the fear. The fear is how you will respond. Will you use it to give yourself license to self-destruct? Will you blame yourself for things you had no control over, the ways people hurt you and people around you are hurt? Will you finally regain self-control? Will the sins in your life continue to gain power little by little as you wear away? Will you get drowned in the despair or dry up in the numbness? Will you run from the God who heals you? Will you reject the Spirt who gives you the power to go on? Will you make it through this year?
I’m afraid of wasting away full of vacillation and unfulfilled promises.
I’m afraid of failure.
And I’m afraid of being alone.
The irony of it is I'm doing work that I cannot fail. It's already promised to succeed. I'm not even alone. You're not alone either. Despite all my unkept commitments, God is always committed. He is always faithful.
I'm not sure yet how that will help me make any art, write any books, or get any stronger.
I wish I got a letter from the future to tell me I made it. I crush depression under the mighty blow of joy. I am steadfast in my creative practice. I have abs and great skin and am super fast. I'm not lonely anymore.
I also dread the letter I might get from the future... the one that says I didn't. The letter that says friends moved away, family died, and I've been left alone. The one that says I look a little disheveled and have dark circles and lifeless eyes. The one that says all my creativity and skill dried up. The one that says I didn't make it.
This isn't the first time I've wondered if I can take another year. There's a time and season for everything, but I feel most of the time it's dark and the seasons difficult. But God hasn't left. Looking back now I can see his hand holding the burdens that nearly broke me. I see his saving arm against the enemies that drove me into the mud, pierced with their fiery darts, and staring down the point of their swords. I see him give me the strength to walk. Every year God has held my weak and trembling hand in his strong and gracious one.
And so in spite of it all, I eagerly hold his hand through this year too.
