How to write a letter to your future self

Everyone who opens a letter from their past self says the same thing: they’d forgotten almost all of it. Not the big events, which they remember fine, but the ordinary texture of that year. What they were worried about. What things cost. Who they rang on a Sunday. That’s what the letter is for.

Pick when it opens

Choose the date before you start writing, because it changes what you write.

• One year is the easiest to write honestly, and the most likely to make you laugh. You’ll be close enough to remember, and far enough to be surprised.
• Five years is long enough for real change: a different job, a different home, maybe a different you.
• Ten years or more is a time capsule. Write more about the world, because it’ll have moved on more than you think.
• A milestone works well too: your fortieth birthday, the day you finish the degree you’re starting, the day your child starts school.

What to write about

Write about now, in detail. The detail is the whole point: “life’s busy” tells future you nothing, and “I cycle to work past the bakery that does the good cinnamon buns” puts you straight back there.

• Where you live and what it’s like: the view, the neighbours, the thing that’s broken.
• An ordinary day, from the alarm to bed.
• Who you spend your time with, and who you’ve lost touch with.
• What things cost. Your rent, a pint, a train ticket. Future you will be amazed, one way or the other.
• What you’re worried about. Future you will know how it turned out, and it’s good for them to see what felt enormous.
• What you’re proud of, even if it’s small.
• What you’re reading, watching and listening to. The song you’ve had on repeat.
• What’s going on in the world, and how it feels from where you are.

Questions to ask yourself

A letter to your future self is also a letter from your future self: they’ll answer as they read. Leave them questions.

• Do you still live here? Do you miss it?
• Did you ever fix the bike, learn the language, run the half marathon?
• Are you still friends with the people in the photo?
• Did the thing I’m worried about happen? Was it as bad as I thought?
• What do you know now that you’d tell me if you could?
• Are you happy? Actually, not politely.
• What’s the best thing that’s happened since I wrote this?
• Do you still say “that’s grand” about everything?

What to leave out

• Instructions. “By now you should have a house” reads like a telling-off from someone who didn’t know what was coming.
• A list of goals and nothing else. Future you will tick them off in thirty seconds and learn nothing about who wrote it.
• Anything too cruel about yourself. Be honest, but be kind. They’ll be reading it on a day you can’t predict.

How to start and end

Start with the moment you’re writing in. It sets the scene better than anything:

Dear me, It’s a Tuesday in September, it’s raining, and I’m writing this on the sofa with a cold cup of tea.

And end with something warm, because you’re writing to someone you care about:

Whatever happened, I hope you were kind to yourself about it. I’m rooting for you. I always was.

Add the evidence

A photo of your life right now is worth more than you’d think: your desk, your street, your people, your terrible haircut. And a film of you talking, even for a minute, is extraordinary to watch years later. You’ll notice the voice, the room, the things you took for granted.

In an envelope, the letter and the photos are kept for good. A film is kept for a year after it’s first opened, so the one you record now is still there on the day, and you can save your own copy then.

Keep it sealed until the day

A letter in a drawer gets opened early, or lost in a move. Set the date it opens and send the link to yourself: until then, the envelope shows a countdown and nothing else, however many times you look. Keep the link in the receipt email, and if you lose it, sign in with the email you paid with and it’s waiting in your envelopes. It costs from $1.29, once, however long you make it wait.