A Reflection To My Future Self!

Note: I encourage all who read this to write to themselves. See the person you are now, the experiences you faced and let that be a reminder to your future self that you went through lots of hard times, but lots of good times too. Let it be a letter that reminds you of your dreams, your hopes and let it guide you into the person you hope to become.

To my future self,

By the time your eyes land on these words, I hope they feel like an embrace from the past—like a voice you almost forgot but always carried with you. This is me—sixteen, curious, soft-hearted, and holding on to a dream like a child cradles the stars. I don’t know where you are now, or what your days look like—but I hope, deeply and truly, that you are still someone who feels things fully and loves without apology.

Right now, you're walking the path toward becoming a pediatric doctor. Not for prestige, not for the letters behind your name, but for the children who will need your calm voice, your gentle presence, your faith. You’ve always seen the beauty in small things—tiny hands, bright eyes, the way a child clings to hope even in pain. You want to be there in those quiet, sacred moments. To listen. To heal. To protect. That calling lives in your bones. I hope it still does.

And oh, there’s someone in your life right now who means the world to you.

You carry them in your chest like a secret prayer—tender, constant. They feel like home. Like laughter you didn’t know you needed. I hope they’re still here, still sharing your days, still holding your heart the way only they can. But more than that, I hope your connection has only deepened—rooted in kindness, grown in patience, blooming in the little things: shared silences, long talks, du’as made for each other in private.

They’ve helped you see love as something calm and sacred, not chaotic. And you’ve loved them with the kind of soul that knows distance, faith, and timing. Whatever shape your bond has taken in the future, I hope it’s only become more beautiful. If you’re walking beside them now—smile. You’re living a prayer that once lived in whispers.

You still write, don’t you?

Back in 2025, your words were soft lanterns floating across the sky. You wrote about faith and longing, about Allah, about the hereafter, about love in all its forms. Sometimes your hands shook when you wrote, because the feelings were too big—but you wrote anyway. I hope you still do. I hope your words still make people pause. I hope your voice still echoes in silence, gentle but sure.

And most of all, I hope you’ve held on to your faith. That it still feels like a warm hand in the dark. That your heart still turns toward Allah before anyone else. That you still find peace in sujood, and wonder in His signs. If life ever grew heavy, I hope you didn’t harden. I hope you bent, like a reed in the wind, and stood again. I hope you trusted that every delay was a mercy and every “no” was redirection, not rejection.

And I hope you’re still soft. This world will try to steal that softness—don’t let it. Be the one who comforts. The one who listens when no one else does. The one who loves deeply, prays sincerely, and never stops believing that there’s goodness in this life and the next.

If you’ve made it through the storms, I’m proud of you. If you’re still in the middle of one, I’m standing beside you—in spirit, in memory, in love.

Keep dreaming. Keep praying. Keep writing. Keep loving.
Your journey was never meant to be rushed. Let it unfold like a poem—line by line, moment by moment, all in Allah’s perfect time.

With so much love,
Your younger self
April 2025