Photo taken in Brussels, Belgium
Letter to a Future Self
In middle school, I decided to do something strange. In fact, it remains one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever thought of doing.
But, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely my idea. It all began when a few friends and I agreed to create our own time capsule—a box filled with cherished items and handwritten notes, which we buried near a tree on our middle school campus, promising to retrieve it years later.
Inspired by the magic of this, I decided to create my own personal version of that ritual—one I could revisit when I became an adult. Again, it was an odd idea, but I wrote a letter to my future self with strict instructions not to open it for many years.
To this day, I can’t recall my exact reasoning, other than a desire to compare my past thoughts to my future reality. I vaguely remember the excitement I felt just thinking about surprising myself with insights and impressions that I could revisit as an older version of myself.
So, at eighteen years old, I followed through. I tore open the envelope I had carefully sealed years before, scanned the words from my younger self, and finally satisfied the curiosity I’d carried all that time.
It felt like reading a long-lost journal entry hidden in a secret drawer. However, what I didn’t expect was the sense of disappointment that came with it.
Perhaps this reflects the age-old lesson about managing expectations. Regardless, I felt both underwhelmed and discouraged by the thoughts of my younger self.
Most of the letter focused on ideals that seemed to reject any kind of change. I was surprised by how it sounded—almost like the voice of someone afraid of growth, of losing a part of themselves.
This felt deeply conflicting. In just a few years since I’d written that letter, I’d already experienced countless coming-of-age moments—enough to prove just how much I had changed.
Yet, paradoxically, I also sensed that a part of me remained the same. How could both be true?
This question reminded me of one of philosophy’s most enduring debates: are we truly changing—or simply evolving into the most authentic version of who we’ve always been? In other words, over time, are we being or becoming?
Becoming
The process of becoming might appear straightforward. After all, it’s a concept our society widely encourages and rewards.
To become is to act—to consistently pursue a goal, whether personal or professional. It’s about applying effort, discipline, and persistence to grow into the person we aim to be.
Indeed, it’s through action that we witness progress. Each step forward allows us to learn, adapt, and transform into better versions of ourselves.
Naturally, this momentum can lift us toward higher levels of personal development. Yet, as with most things, there’s a tipping point—where doing too much turns into overdoing.
Many of us are well aware of the dangers of workaholism. When we push ourselves beyond our limits, we burn out.
Our well-being begins to suffer, and our health—physical, mental, emotional, and even social—takes the hit. The worst part is when we lose sight of our original intentions, becoming entangled in the rush of daily life without remembering what we’re even working toward.
As a result, we risk losing meaning, gratitude, and joy. Without self-reflection, we may spiral into dissatisfaction—or even depression—especially when we refuse to pause and tend to our inner needs.
Sometimes, we must intentionally step back—to rest and reassess. No matter how busy we are, our mental and emotional states must take priority.
After all, we weren’t meant to operate on empty, entering each day as hollow versions of ourselves. That’s why it’s essential to tune into our bodies and minds, recognizing the signals that call for change.
By doing so, we can realign with our values and reshape our routines into something we actually enjoy. We create space to breathe, readjust, and live with intention. In Becoming, Michelle Obama writes:
“For me becoming isn’t about arriving somewhere or achieving a certain aim. I see it instead as forward motion, a means of evolving, a way to reach continuously toward a better self. The journey doesn’t end.”
Being
In recent decades, the concept of “being” has grown in popularity. Despite criticism and its association with certain new-age ideologies, it continues to gain traction across cultures and lifestyles.
We see it often in discussions around mindfulness, meditation, conscious eating, breathwork, and yoga. At its core, being is about tapping into awareness through stillness and presence.
It asks us to stay grounded in the moment—the only reality we truly have. For some, this kind of lifestyle offers peace, clarity, and ease.
However, like all things, it can be taken too far. When moderation disappears, the same practices meant to liberate us can slowly become limiting or even harmful.
This happens when someone becomes so immersed in “being” that they begin rejecting any sense of purpose, commitment, or ambition. When that occurs, a person may fall into a pattern of chasing pleasure or avoiding responsibility.
In this state, it’s easy to succumb to distraction, guided by a mindset that values short-term gratification over long-term growth. Unfortunately, this overemphasis on being can become just as damaging as overdoing.
Without any structure or discipline, we risk losing motivation and direction. Over time, our confidence suffers—because effort and accomplishment play a critical role in how we view ourselves.
We are wired to feel that our lives matter; that our actions have meaning. That’s why even the smallest acts of contribution strengthen our sense of self.
In Man’s Search For Himself, Rollo May writes:
“Finding the center of strength within ourselves is in the long run the best contribution we can make to our fellow men. One person with indigenous inner strength exercises a great calming effect on panic among people around him. This is what our society needs—not new ideas and inventions; important as they are, and not geniuses and supermen, but persons who can ‘be,’ that is, persons who have a center of strength within themselves.”
Balance
It took me a long time to understand the importance of balancing being and becoming in daily life. And, as with many life lessons, the most meaningful ones are often learned the hard way.
I can still remember moments when I unknowingly favored one mode over the other. But the saying holds true: pain can be a powerful teacher—especially when we pause long enough to reflect on our role in it.
How much of our discomfort comes from the actions we avoid taking? How many of our current struggles could be improved with a shift in perspective—or a single brave decision?
In ancient Taoist philosophy, there’s a well-known symbol: the yin-yang. This circular emblem depicts two opposite yet interconnected forces—each containing a small part of the other.
The black half (yin) and the white half (yang) together represent balance and harmony. I often think of this when reflecting on being and becoming.
Yin energy is soft, nurturing, and restful—expressed through activities like self-care, meditation, and restorative practices. Yang energy, by contrast, is active, expressive, and outward—driven by productivity, movement, and creation.
This is what it means to be and to become all at once. In Narcissus and Goldmund, Herman Hesse writes:
“We are transitory, we are becoming, we are potentials; there is no perfection for us; no complete being. But whatever we go, from potential to deed, from possibility to realization, we participate in true being, become by a degree more similar to the perfect and divine. That is what it means to realize oneself.”
The Journey
Looking back on my younger self, staring in disappointment at the letter I once wrote, I now feel grateful. With hindsight, I see that my adolescent mind was filled with fear—especially the fear of change.
It’s the same line of thought reflected in yearbook messages that say “never change.” But I can’t help but ask—aren’t we supposed to?
With everything we absorb and experience throughout life, how could we possibly remain the same? As I see it now, parts of us are constantly evolving, while other parts stay rooted.
We’re walking paradoxes—longing to grow, yet also wanting to stay true to who we are. This, perhaps, is the essence of what it means to merge doing with being, purpose with passion, and structure with presence.
It’s about staying attuned to what grounds us while also allowing space for what inspires us to grow. It’s the pursuit of a deeper, more conscious kind of progress—a journey of both being and becoming.
