A letter from Apr 29, 2025

Dear Future Me, I hope you’re still alive. I don’t know what you’re doing right now—maybe you’re in community college, or somewhere entirely unexpected. It’s strange to think I’ve spent my whole life in school just to keep going back to it. But maybe, just maybe, that’s okay. Maybe there’s still something great waiting to come from all this. Looking back on this past year, I can’t deny how much my mental health has declined. I’ve done damage to myself—not physically, but mentally, emotionally, in ways that feel permanent. But here’s the truth: none of it was accidental. I knew the risks. I saw the red flags. I understood what it would do to me. And I did it anyway. Why? Because at the time, it felt like the only way to protect myself. Some people cope with substances, distractions, addictions. Me? I chose to shut everything out. Emotionally. Mentally. I built walls so high that not even the people who love me most could climb over them. I have a wonderful family. I have friends who care deeply. So many people reaching out with open hands, trying to help. And maybe on the outside, it looks like it worked. Like I’ve gotten better. But inside? Nothing has changed. I still feel disconnected. Still feel like I’m pretending to be fine in a world that rewards performance over truth. Let me be clear: I am not suicidal. I don’t want to hurt myself. I’m still here. I still care enough to write this. But I don’t understand life. It feels like everything we do is shaped by invisible rules—social norms, expectations, judgments. The way we talk, the way we dress, the opinions we share or keep hidden—it’s all a response to what we think others want from us. No one is truly real, not even the ones who think they are. We’re all chained to something. And I am no exception. I know how easily people can be used. I’ve seen how weak and predictable we all are when we want to be liked or accepted. That includes me. It hurts to admit it, but I’ve been both the user and the used. So if you’re reading this, future me, I want to ask you: Did anything ever feel real again? Did you find something worth holding on to? Did you learn to trust people again—or better yet, to trust yourself? Because despite all this pain, all this disillusionment, I’m still here. Somewhere deep down, I still believe there’s a chance to become someone who is real. Someone who doesn’t have to hide behind the performance. Someone who heals. I hope you became that person. And if not, I hope you’re still trying. That’s enough. — Me