Letters to your future self isn’t new. Some of y’all have written similar in school — elementary, middle, high school, primary, secondary — folded into construction paper time capsules or sealed in manila envelopes with a teacher promising to mail them back “someday.”

I never did.

When I start a new relationship — and/or start dating a woman — I ask several stock, housekeeping questions. Compatibility check. Lifestyle audit. Low-stakes but high-signal data.

One of them is this:

Which retailer is your “$100 store”?

You know the one. The place where you walk in for one thing and walk out lighter by at least a Benjamin. Budget or not. Written list or not (and why are we still writing with pen and pad?). The floor plan wins. Consistently, I hear Target.

Mine isn’t Target. For sure. However… I did buy a novelty item at TAR-SHAY. A hardbound booklet. Letters on a perforated edge. Title stamped plainly on the front:

Letters To Myself.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that little impulse buy would become a ritual.

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Long Beach, WA — 2016

In 2016, I had recently purchased a house in Lake Stevens, aptly titled:

Bastion of Bayne.

Transitioning from apartment living to a full house floor plan meant opportunity. Rooms to define. Corners to claim. Furniture to justify. Hopefully not falling headfirst into the Diderot Effect — buy one new thing, now everything else must level up.

Deana and I were enjoying vacation time in Long Beach, WA when I spotted it.

A piece that would be perfect as a glassware / bar area cabinet. Substantial. Character. The kind of furniture that says, “Yes, an adult lives here.”

Somehow. Some way. It fit inside her Toyota Land Cruiser. (Physics remains under review.)

During that same era, I mentioned to her that I had already created a time capsule — hidden inside the drywall of the home. If the house were ever sold, I planned to tell the new owners about it cryptically.

Because of course I did!

She leaned in and said, “Why not write a letter of explanation, tape it to the back of the armoire, and if you sell it, hand it over? Or… keep the letter as a reminder?”

I smiled. “I have just the thing for THAT.”

My first letter to myself wasn’t even to myself. You can now groan, “Of course.”

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Dear Future Carlos,

I didn’t know what to write.

Honestly? I thought this was silly.

Then I decided — what the hell. I might as well. Even if I wrote it, I probably wouldn’t remember where I hid it. Or set a reminder to open it. Or care enough to follow through.

That first true, legitimate letter to myself was projected five years out. Five.

Which felt responsible. Mature. Strategic. Like something a person with a retirement account would do. And somehow? I did successfully store it.
And yes, I did successfully read it.

Because for six years and change I lived in Lake Stevens. I worked at Woodinville Costco the entire time.

Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

That season wasn’t bad. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t catastrophic. It just… wasn’t good for me. But that’s what happened.

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Happy Birthday

I wrote another five-year delayed letter. To be opened on 2.7.2026. That’s correct — my 50th birthday.

Which means I must have written it on my 45th birthday. (I’ll post a picture later.)

That one felt different. Less about career. More about identity. More about who I wanted to be walking into a half-century of life. And then?

AHEM.

The next letter I wrote was mid-process of Get To Jen. To be opened on 01.01.2026. Which I did. On the road, in the hotel room for Disney In December. And read it to her aloud. She suggested I do it again.

And I did.

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Next Steps?

You got it.

I wrote a letter in 2026 to be opened in 2027.

I hid it on top of my beloved display LEGO, on a repurposed shelving unit. Which means it’s technically in plain sight… but spiritually hidden.

Guess we’ll all haveta wait for that.

James Clear makes it clear — with enough repetition, a behavior becomes a habit. But if you miss it more than twice? It’s a new habit.

Don’t miss twice.

Every habit is a vote toward your identity. Whether it’s new. Whether it’s old. Whether it’s aligned. Whether it’s autopilot.

You don’t become something overnight.
You vote for it. Daily.

For me, these letters are small ballots.

Not dramatic.
Not viral.
Not performative.

Just a once-a-year vote that says:

“I am someone who reflects.”
“I am someone who measures growth.”
“I am someone who documents the journey.”

In 2026, what are you voting for yourself?

Because January 1st isn’t magic.

But patterns are.

A year from now, you’ll meet the version of yourself you’ve been quietly building.
Make sure he’s someone you’d be proud to read about.

— Past Los