Dear 45-Year-Old Me,

I hope you are okay.

I hope the mornings feel lighter now, not because life got easier, but because you have learned how to carry things better. I wonder what your days look like. I wonder if you have finally found a rhythm that does not hurt.

Did we make it to where we always wanted to be?

I hope you have a job you like — or at least one that gives you peace. Something steady. Something that lets you breathe. You always said you didn’t need grand things — just something stable, something that lets you sleep at night without counting worries.

I hope your room is quiet but not empty. That there are books, or music, or even just the sound of the fan as you rest. That your life is not loud, but it is full in its own quiet way.

And love…

Maybe someone came. Maybe no one did.

But I hope you stopped measuring your worth by it.

I hope you learned that love is not something to chase, but something that finds you when you are already whole. If they have not arrived yet, that is okay. Maybe you became everything you needed all on your own.

I hope you are still kind — not just to others, but to yourself. I hope you do not replay old mistakes too often. I hope you have forgiven the younger version of us for not knowing better. She was trying. We both know that.

And if things still do not look like the life we dreamed of, I hope they at least feel like something you have grown into.

You are not late. You are just moving at your own pace.

With all my hope,

Your younger self

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Sometimes, life moves so fast that we forget to pause and check in with ourselves. So today, I decided to write a letter—to my future self. A letter that my 45-year-old me will one day read, filled with hopes, reminders, and maybe a little bit of advice. It’s like planting a time capsule of thoughts, dreams, and feelings that I want to remember and reflect on years from now. Writing this felt both strange and comforting, like having a conversation across time. I can’t wait to see how things have changed when I finally open it.

I am 40 now.

Honestly, it still feels weird to say. I thought things would look different by now. I thought I’d be more… settled. But here I am, still figuring things out.

I left my job. I tried to make it work, stayed, hoped something better would come. It did not. I am jobless. And yeah, it is frustrating sometimes — to try and still feel like I am back at square one.

Love? Still nothing.

Still no one new.

Still mending a heart that has been broken for a while now. Some days it is okay. Other days, not so much. But I have learned to sit with it — not fight it as much. Some pain just stays a little longer.

But not everything feels heavy.

This year, I had my first international trip.

And I got to be with my sister again. Her family. My nephew.

That part felt good. Like home. Like I could breathe.

It reminded me that love shows up in different ways. And maybe that’s enough for now.

At 40, I have not ticked all the boxes.

No job. No partner.

But I am here. I am trying.

I have failed, yes — but I have also grown. Quietly. Slowly.

I have learned to let go of things, people, places that were not for me.

To be honest, I am still learning how to be okay with where I am.

But I am proud I made it this far.

So if I ever read this again someday —

I hope I smile a little.

And I hope I have found more peace than I have now.

— Me, 40