A Sacred Writing Challenge: What Would You Tell Your Past Self?

 

An invitation to reflect, heal, and let your future self speak.

A few days ago, my niece gave me a simple but powerful assignment:

If you could write a letter to yourself on the day of your cancer diagnosis, what would you say?

At first, I just sat with the question.

That day still lives in my body. In my breath. In my memory.

But as I began to write, I realized something unexpected — this assignment isn’t just about cancer.

It works for anything.

A breakup. A loss. A scary medical report. A season of uncertainty. A moment when your world shifted and you didn’t yet know how you would survive it.

We all have a “before” and an “after.” We all have moments that reshape us.

Writing to your past self creates a bridge between who you were and who you’ve become. It allows wisdom, compassion, faith, and perspective to travel backward in time. It reminds us that even when we couldn’t see the road ahead, we were already becoming someone stronger, softer, braver, and more rooted in truth.

So today, I’m sharing my letter — not just for the version of me who heard the word cancer, but for anyone standing in their own tender moment, unsure of what comes next.

If you’re walking through something hard right now, maybe this is your invitation to try the exercise too.

Here is what I would tell her………

Dear me,

It’s your 50th birthday. July 2023.

A day that was supposed to be marked by candles and celebration — not fluorescent lights and plastic chairs.

You’re sitting in the ER, still trying to understand how this moment became your reality, when the doctor tells you there’s an apple core lesion in your descending colon — likely cancer. Words that land heavy and sharp, stealing the air from your lungs.

You walked into this day expecting cake and hugs — and instead, you were handed a diagnosis.

Before you can even catch your breath, they’re admitting you, placing wristbands on your arm, starting IVs, talking about emergency surgery to remove the tumor. Your birthday turns into consent forms and hospital gowns, into being wheeled down quiet hallways toward an operating room, praying through tears while your whole world shifts in a matter of hours.

I know your hands are shaking right now.

I know the room feels too quiet, too loud, too unreal all at once. I know the word cancer is echoing in your ears like something foreign — something that surely belongs to someone else.

But it’s yours today.

And I’m so sorry.

Take a breath. Let it be messy. Let the tears fall if they need to. You don’t have to be brave in this moment.

I’m writing to you from the future — from a place you can’t imagine yet.

You survive this.

Not just physically — but spiritually, emotionally, and deeply.

You will walk through fear that feels unbearable. You will face decisions that shake your confidence. You will grieve the life you thought you had. You will question everything — your body, your faith, your strength.

And still… you will rise.

You are about to learn what surrender really means. You will learn to lean on God in ways you never have before — not with polished prayers, but with raw cries and whispered pleas in the dark. You will discover that faith isn’t pretending everything is okay.

Faith is choosing to trust when nothing makes sense.

There will be days you feel broken open. There will also be days filled with unexpected beauty.

You will meet angels disguised as nurses, friends, strangers, and caregivers. You will witness love show up in text messages, prayers, and quiet presence. You will feel carried when you think you can’t take another step.

Keith will stand beside you in ways that humble you.

Your body will teach you patience.

Your soul will learn courage.

You will change how you eat, how you rest, how you listen to your intuition. You will learn to honor your body instead of fighting it. You will discover that healing isn’t linear — it zigzags, stumbles, pauses, and surprises you.

There will be moments of doubt.

There will also be signs of hope.

There will be carrot juice and courage. There will be exhaustion and determination. There will be fear — and then peace that makes no logical sense.

And here’s something important:

You don’t have to do this perfectly.

You don’t have to have all the answers. You don’t have to be positive every day. You don’t have to carry everyone else’s comfort on your shoulders.

Just keep choosing the next right step.

One breath.

One prayer.

One glass of juice.

One act of self-compassion at a time.

Two and a half years from now, I promise you this:

You will be here.

You will be stronger than you ever imagined.

You will tell this story not from the middle of the storm, but from the other side of it.

You will help others by simply being honest about your journey.

You will feel gratitude for things that once seemed ordinary.

And you will know, deep in your bones, that God never left you — not for a second.

So today, sweet girl, be gentle with yourself.

Let yourself be held.

Let hope exist quietly in the background, even if fear is loud right now.

This diagnosis is not the end of your story.

It is the beginning of a healing path you could never have planned — and one that will shape you in ways you can’t imagine.

I love you.

I’m proud of you.

And I’m waiting for you here — healed, grateful, alive.

With all the compassion in the world,

Your future self 🩷

Writing this letter reminded me how much can change in a single moment — and how much healing can unfold when we allow ourselves to look back with compassion instead of judgment.

This assignment doesn’t have to be about cancer.  It can be about any moment that changed you.

A loss.

A diagnosis.

A divorce.

A betrayal.

A season of uncertainty.

A version of yourself who didn’t yet know how things would turn out.

Before I close, I want to thank Sophie for this incredibly powerful assignment. What started as a simple question opened a door to reflection, grace, and deep healing — and I’m so grateful she invited me into it.

If you’re willing, I invite you to try it too. 

Write a letter to your past self — the one standing at the beginning of something hard. Let your current wisdom speak. Let your faith lead. Let grace fill the gaps where fear once lived.

You might be surprised by what comes through.

And if you’re still in the middle of your storm, know this: healing doesn’t require perfection. It only asks for presence. One breath, one prayer, one small brave step at a time.

Wherever you are on your journey, may you feel held, seen, and deeply loved.

I’ll close with a verse that God has been putting on my heart.

Isaiah 41:10 (NKJV)

Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.

Until next time…..keep joy in your mind and in your heart❣️

With love and gratitude, 

Ali 🫶🏼✌🏼