The roads not taken
The next night, I found myself sitting at the same desk, the notebook open in front of me. The first letter stared back at me, its words echoing in my mind.
But tonight, I wasn't just thinking about the "successful versions" of me. I was thinking about the choices that could've led me there. The tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions that could've changed everything.
I picked up my pen and started writing again.
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Dear Successful Versions of Me,
I've been thinking about you all day. I keep wondering how you got there—how you became the versions of me that I only dream about. Was it a single decision that set you on a different path? Or was it a series of small, deliberate choices, each one leading you closer to your dreams?
Maybe you're the version of me who didn't quit writing after the first rejection. Do you remember that day? I do. I was 23, and I'd just sent my first manuscript to a publisher. I had poured my heart into that story, convinced it was the one that would change everything.
But then the rejection letter came.
It wasn't just a "no." It was brutal. They said the story lacked depth, that the characters were flat, that the prose was uninspired. I remember reading those words and feeling like they were describing me.
So I stopped. I told myself it wasn't worth the pain, that maybe I wasn't meant to be a writer after all.
But maybe you didn't stop. Maybe you read that letter, cried for a while, and then sat down to write something even better. Maybe you kept going until the rejections turned into acceptances, until the dream became a reality.
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I paused, the pen hovering over the page. That memory was sharper than I expected. I could still feel the sting of that rejection, the way it had buried itself deep inside me.
But there were other moments too—other choices I hadn't made.
I started writing again.
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Or maybe you're the version of me who pursued figure skating. Remember that first time we stepped onto the ice? We were 14, and we'd begged Mom to take us to the rink. We weren't good at it—not at first. But we loved it, didn't we? The feeling of gliding across the ice, the wind in our hair, the sheer joy of it.
We told ourselves we'd keep practicing, that one day we'd be good enough to compete.
But then high school happened, and we got busy. We told ourselves we'd get back to it eventually, but we never did.
Maybe you're the version of me who never gave up on skating. Maybe you practiced every day, even when it was hard, even when it felt like you weren't getting anywhere. Maybe you made it to the Olympics, standing on that podium with a gold medal around your neck.
Or maybe you didn't make it that far, but you kept skating anyway, just because you loved it.
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The words came faster now, spilling out onto the page.
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And then there's the version of me who opened the little coffee shop. You know the one—the cozy place with the warm lighting, the shelves full of books, and the smell of fresh pastries in the air.
I always imagined it tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place people stumble upon and fall in love with. I can see it so clearly in my mind—the chalkboard menu, the mismatched chairs, the plants hanging in the windows.
I wonder if you're there right now, wiping down the counters and smiling as a regular walks through the door. I wonder if you feel proud of what you've built, if it feels like home.
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I stopped again, the pen trembling in my hand.
It was so easy to imagine these lives, these alternate versions of me who had taken the paths I hadn't. But the more I thought about them, the more I felt the weight of regret pressing down on me.
Why hadn't I kept writing? Why hadn't I stuck with skating? Why hadn't I taken the risks that could've led me to those dreams?
The answer was simple: fear.
Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of not being good enough. It had always been there, whispering in the back of my mind, convincing me to play it safe.
But as I sat there, staring at the words I'd written, I realized something: the fear hadn't gone away. If anything, it had only grown stronger, feeding on the choices I hadn't made.
I thought about the successful versions of me—the ones who had faced their fears and kept going anyway. What would they say to me now, if they could see me sitting here, paralyzed by doubt?
I picked up the pen again and wrote one final line:
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I don't know if I'll ever be you. But I'm starting to think it's not too late to try.
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I closed the notebook and leaned back in my chair, the words still echoing in my mind.
It wasn't too late.
Not yet.
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