A Letter to My Future Self
Dear future Milice,
I am writing to you on this quiet summer day because I want you to remember — not the facts of your past, but the texture of your inner life many years ago. By the time you read this, your age will have climbed well beyond the early thirties, and I hope you will have gathered at least a little more wisdom than the version of you who sits here now.
And yet, I must tell you honestly: In the summer of 2026, you were doing rather well. Not flawlessly — life never grants that — but well enough to stand upright, to keep moving, to believe in the horizon. At this moment, you are a master’s student at the University of Vienna, which means that the long, intricate journey of building a life in history still lies before you. The path is unwalked, the doors unopened, the work unfinished.
But here is the quiet triumph: You already know by now that the destination is not the point. You have finally learned that the goal is not some distant, glittering end, but the daily act of living with devotion. You have discovered that joy is not a reward but a practice — that each day can be immense, luminous, and full simply because you are doing the work you love most in the world.
You are, in this moment, learning Hungarian and Polish — two languages in which you still stumble like a beginner, two alphabets of possibility that have not yet settled into your bones. I hope that, by the time your future eyes rest upon these lines, both tongues will flow through you with ease, as naturally as breath, as intimately as memory.
And I hope, too, that French and Spanish — the languages in which you now move with a confident, conversational stride — have by then unfurled fully within you, becoming not merely tools but companions, voices you can inhabit without hesitation. Perhaps, in your world, you have even wandered into Hebrew or Russian or Italian, drawn by curiosity or by the simple joy of unlocking yet another linguistic door. I wish this for you with all my heart: that languages continue to be your way of expanding the borders of your life, your way of loving the world more widely.
And then — the people. I am happy to tell you that, in this chapter of your life, you have gathered a small constellation of truly good friends. The kind who take a day off work just to stand beside you, who celebrate your victories as if they were their own. The kind who show up without being asked, who make your joys larger and your burdens lighter.
Sometimes, though, you still make mistakes with people. You choose to believe in those who — perhaps — haven’t earned all that devotion and trust. And yet, I don’t want you to change. Stay the kind of person who would rather give too many chances than too few. Keep your mind open, remain trustful, even when it means being let down. There is a quiet strength in refusing to let disappointment calcify your generosity. It is the kind of courage that keeps a life expansive, and a character recognizably your own.
As for your parents, it appears that they have finally learned to respect your distance and your boundaries. It has taken years for them to understand that closeness cannot be forced into existence. Perhaps, in your world, you are able to speak with them again, but from where I stand now, that moment has not yet arrived. And that is alright. Some relationships take time to settle into their truest shape, and some forms of peace are slow to grow. What matters is that you have chosen the version of closeness that does not cost your well‑being.
And Marc — well, what can I possibly tell you that you don’t already know? I hope he is still your steadfast companion, your BFF in the truest sense of the word, the one person who has walked with you from the moment you arrived in Vienna. A witness to your beginnings, a keeper of your stories, a friend whose loyalty has never wavered. I hope he is still there in your world, unchanged in essence, still laughing with you, still believing in you, still choosing you as one of his people.
As for your love life, I often wonder what it looks like in your world. Right now, I find myself drifting away from the one person who brought more safety, tranquillity, and happiness than I ever imagined a relationship could provide. And yet, sometimes life introduces things we could not possibly foresee. Sometimes we find ourselves distancing even from those who deserve the absolute best — not out of carelessness, but because something within us has shifted in a way we can no longer ignore. My hope is that you can look back on this period with the calm satisfaction of knowing that, at every step, you moved through it with all the honesty and fairness you could gather — as though each choice were a quiet vow to remain faithful to your own inner world.
In the end, the most important thing I want you to remember is that by the summer of 2026, you have learned to live without possessing every answer you once believed you needed. You have discovered how to remain genuinely happy even when the path ahead is blurred, even when certainty keeps its distance. You have learned to trust the unfinished parts of your life — the questions that linger, the choices that take their time, the chapters that open slowly. And in that trust, you have found a quiet, durable peace, one that does not depend on clarity or perfection but on the steady courage to show up as yourself, day after day.
So, future Milice, wherever you are, I hope you read these lines with tenderness. I hope you recognize the strength it took to keep going without a map. And above all, I hope you are living a life that feels deeply, entirely yours.
With love from the past,
Milica
