Do You Ever Wonder What You’re Future Will Be Like?

Do you ever wonder what your future will be like?

The other day I was standing in my bedroom looking at a wedding photo of Kevin and me. We were perched on the edge of a new horizon, ready to fly.

The photo was taken seven years ago.

As I looked at it, I realized I was staring at a version of myself who had no idea what life would become.

I found myself wanting to reach through the frame and tell her:

"Hey, you."

"This is it."

"This is the future you were waiting for."

I'm wondering how many of us are doing the same thing.

How many versions of ourselves spent years wondering what life would become?

Would we ever be happy? Would we find peace? Would we feel free? Would we finally become ourselves?

The life I am living right now was once a future I could not fully imagine.

I don’t have photographs of Kevin and me from our teenage years.

I burned them.

The photographs, poetry, letters, and memorabilia from our sweet high school years all had to go.

At the time, I was seven years into my first marriage. My life was very full. I was raising five children, managing a large household, serving in leadership roles in my church and community, and trying very hard to do what I believed was right.

My heart belonged somewhere it could not go.

At least that is what I believed.

I truly wanted to serve God.

On my first date with my former husband, he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. My answer came immediately.

"I want to serve God."

I meant it.

I loved God deeply.

I believed the path before me was already chosen. I believed my responsibility was to walk it faithfully and trust that happiness would somehow find me along the way.

The reminders of Kevin became too painful to keep.

Sometimes I would pull them out just to remember the feeling. The connection. The love. The knowing.

Then I would put them away and return to my life carrying an ache that seemed impossible to soothe.

Eventually, even that became too much.

One warm September evening, I sent my family to the cabin a day ahead of me so I could be alone.

I lit the charcoal in the barbecue.

One by one I said goodbye.

Photographs.

Poetry.

Letters.

Sacred objects from a chapter of my life that I believed was over forever.

As each item disappeared into the fire, I hoped I was setting myself free.

Instead, I felt sentenced.

For the next fifteen years, I searched and searched for happiness.

There was joy, certainly. My children brought tremendous joy into my life.

There were meaningful experiences, beautiful moments, and much to be grateful for.

Yet my heart ached.

I had very limited access to my own heart.

I became sad.

Angry.

Lonely.

Bitter.

And then the breadcrumbs began to appear.

At the Fountain of Youth Resort, I met a woman named Bridget.

By then a question had already begun whispering inside me.

Can I be happy?

Can I release the pain?

Can I allow others to have responsibility for their own reactions?

Bridget looked directly into my eyes and said:

"Life can be magical. Dreams do come true."

I carried those words with me.

Then my friend Robin died.

In the midst of my grief, I heard four words:

"It's all made up."

My heart perked up.

I cannot think of a better way to describe it.

My heart perked up.

There was a chance.

A chance that life might be larger than the story I had been telling myself.

A chance that freedom existed.

A chance that happiness was not something I had to earn.

I didn’t know what was possible on the day I told my husband I no longer wanted to be in our marriage.

It had taken me twenty-two years to say those words out loud.

I didn’t know who I would become.

I didn’t know what my future would look like.

I didn’t know that one day I would become a death doula.

I didn’t know that I would spend my days sitting with people as they explored their hearts, their losses, and their possibilities.

I didn’t know this life existed.

This life feels completely natural now.

Yet there was a time when I could not imagine it.

And perhaps the future version of me is already smiling.

Perhaps she knows things I cannot yet see.

Perhaps she is looking back toward me with the same tenderness I now feel toward the woman in that wedding photograph.

If you’re curious, find a photograph of yourself, or bring one to mind from an earlier chapter of your life.

Maybe it was five years ago.

Maybe twenty.

Maybe forty.

Take a moment and really look. Look into your own eyes.

What was that person hoping for?

What was that person afraid of?

What future were they imagining?

Then let them know:

"Hey, you."

"You made it this far."

Take a breath.

Allow for the connection. Allow for the remembering of who you were and how you felt.

Breathe.

Thank your lungs for carrying you to this place.

Thank your physical body for bringing you to this moment.

Thank your emotional body for feeling everything it has felt.

Thank your mental body for trying to make sense of it all.

Thank your spiritual body for holding the loving center of you.

As I pause to take in all that is present in my life, I reaffirm that every moment has brought me to this one.

All possibilities are available as I step forward.

The future remains unwritten.

And somewhere ahead, another version of me is looking back with gratitude for the life I am living today.