A letter to A 100-year-old self.

**Dear [Mishi] at 100,** 

Happy 100th birthday! I hope this letter finds you surrounded by warmth—whether in sunlight, the embrace of loved ones, or the quiet comfort of memories. Do you still feel the same thrill when you hear a favorite song, or catch a whiff of rain on earth? Do you laugh at the same inside jokes you’ve carried for decades? I wonder, what does the world look like through a century of your eyes? 

Right now, as I write this, I’m [your current age], sitting [describe where you are—e.g., at a desk cluttered with half-finished plans, in a city alive with noise, or under a sky that feels both endless and small]. I’m equal parts hopeful and terrified, tripping over doubts but still stubbornly convinced that life is worth wrestling into meaning. I hope you’re proud of how far you’ve come. Not just the milestones, but the *miles*—the days you kept going when “enough” felt impossible. Did you finally learn to forgive yourself? To rest without guilt? To love without bargaining? 

Thank you. Thank you for surviving the chapters I haven’t yet lived, for holding on when grief or failure tried to hollow you out. Thank you for letting people matter, even when it meant risking goodbye. For every time you chose curiosity over cynicism, kindness over armor. I hope you’ve kept a few friendships that still feel like home, and that you’ve left room for wonder—even if it’s now in smaller, softer forms. 

If there are regrets, I hope they’ve settled gently. If there’s loneliness, I hope it’s met with the quiet courage you’ve always carried. You’ve earned your scars; they’re proof you showed up. And if your body feels like a stranger now, remember the adventures it gave you: the dances, the breaths held in awe, the hands you’ve held and released. 

Don’t worry if some memories have frayed. The ones that matter have already etched themselves into the world—in the lives you’ve touched, the love you’ve planted like seeds. You’ve been a question, a story, a temporary and brilliant verb in a universe that spins on. That’s enough. 

Here’s to the child you were, the dreamer you are, and the ancestor you’ve become. Keep going, even if “going” now means stillness. The world is better because you’re here. 

With all the love and stubborn hope today’s heart can hold, 
** 
[Smith] at [     95      ]** 
**[10-03-2025]** 

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This letter balances reflection, gratitude, and gentle encouragement, honoring both struggles and triumphs. It invites the future self to feel seen while leaving room for the unpredictability of a lifetime.