I MISS MY FUTURE SELF

 

Sometimes, when I hold someone's baby like today, I catch myself drifting into a quiet daydream, one where I see a version of me I haven’t met yet. A version of me that's calm, steady, and complete. A parent, maybe. Someone who's made it. And suddenly, I miss that person deeply. I’m only 22. Naive in many ways. In a foreign country, balancing university lectures with a part-time job at a pub. It’s not a glamorous life. And truth be told, it often feels far from the version of me I imagined I’d be by now. I used to think I had it all figured out. Made my friends feel like we needed to get serious, be ambitious, act with purpose. Now I realise, no, you don’t need to have it all figured out. Sometimes, just getting through the day is enough. And sometimes, enjoying what you have while you have it is the wisest thing you can do.

But still...
When I see a parent pushing a stroller through the park, or a dad bouncing his toddler on his knee during a family vacation, something inside me aches in a way I can’t quite describe. It’s not just admiration. It’s not just longing. It’s this bittersweet blend of hope and sadness, like I’m looking at a reflection of who I’m meant to be, but through a fogged-up window I haven’t learned how to wipe clear yet. In those moments, I see myself. Not now, but someday. Not the 22-year-old version of me who's hustling through university assignments, rushing to his shift at the pub, figuring out laundry schedules and reheating the leftovers for dinner at midnight. No, I see a future version. Someone stable. Someone whole. A parent with soft eyes and steady hands. Someone who knows what time the baby naps and which stories to read before bed. Someone whose life feels rooted. And when I see a beautiful house, tall and calm and filled with golden light behind the curtains, or a car gliding smoothly down the road like it belongs there, I whisper to myself, “Maybe one day.” Maybe one day I’ll wake up and the morning won’t feel like a race. Maybe one day I’ll sit at a dinner table surrounded by the kind of chaos that feels like home, crayons on placemats, giggles down the hallway, soft music playing in the kitchen.

I always say I’m not materialistic. I pride myself on not chasing things, on believing in values that aren’t built from consumerism. I even call myself a socialist and I mean it. I believe in community, in equality, in helping others rise. But deep down, I still dream. I still want. I want a place where I can breathe without counting costs. I want a car not for its engine, but because it means driving my kids to school with the windows down and the wind playing with their hair. I want a home not to impress anyone, but because it means warmth in winter, birthdays around the table, and never needing to ask “Can we afford this? “It’s not the house. It’s not the car. It’s the feeling. The peace of knowing where you belong. The certainty that you’re building something real. The deep belonging of coming home, not to a place, but to people who love you even on your worst days.

It’s the small, sacred things. A child falling asleep on your shoulder. A partner’s head resting on your chest while you both listen to the soft tick of a quiet room. The scent of dinner in the air and the chatter of a family that knows how to forgive. I don’t envy luxury. I envy normal. I envy ordinary. I envy family vacations where laughter spills over sunlit afternoons. I envy tired parents who get to carry their sleeping child from the car to the bed. I envy anyone who has built a life where love is daily, not distant. And maybe that’s why I miss my future self so much.

Because he feels like home and I’m still out here in the world trying to find the map. I guess it’s okay to miss someone you haven’t met yet.
Especially when that someone is you. And maybe, just maybe, missing them is how you slowly become them. So, to my future self, wherever you are, I miss you. I hope you're proud of me for not giving up. And I hope you still remember what it felt like to dream of the life you now have.