Capstone Essay: A Letter to My Future Self

Dear future self,

This letter is a summary of my time in college and how the series of unfortunate events in my life helped me become who I am now, the person writing this letter. Starting light, then going dark. My time in college was unique, different from those who came before. I graduated from high school in the class of 2020—the year of COVID, Zoom, and social distancing. How funny is it that I graduated five years ago? It sounds and feels like such a long time, but is it? I still have so much time left to live, yet it passes so fast. The days are slower, but the years grow faster and faster. My high school graduation was hosted on Zoom, remember? There were just four of us on screen, each giving short speeches to our laptops while our families watched from the living room. We had to drive up to the school beforehand to collect our awards and diplomas, all while wearing masks and staying six feet apart. It was a strange, suspended moment in time. And yet, it was also the beginning of something.

That same year, something even more unthinkable began unfolding in the background. My mom had started showing symptoms, but appointments were hard to get. Everything was disrupted because of COVID. Combined with the fact that her neglectful abuser was in the picture, it made it even harder for her to make appointments because she stopped taking her own needs seriously. We all knew something was happening, but because there were no check-up appointments, we had no idea to fear the worst. When they finally caught the cancer during an unrelated urgent care visit, it was already too late. Stage IV. She told us a few days later. I was hysterical. I remember thinking things would somehow still turn out okay. Always the optimist. Sidenote, I hope my future self never loses that, even when life disappoints at every turn. Things did not turn out okay for my mom.

She died during my time in college. So did my childhood dog, just months before her. I cried for both. Nothing prepared me for her death. It gutted me. Left a permanent void in my soul. Professors were accommodating, and people were good to me during this time. My entire world screeched to a halt. I had to move out and start living on my own because I’d been living with her in that Second Avenue apartment in Seattle. After she was transferred to a professional care facility, I stayed there with my sister for a while, but it didn’t last. Deadlines didn’t pause. But part of me did. A part of me stayed in that room, holding onto the version of life where she might have made it. That version never came.

What led us to that apartment was a collapse. Before all this, we were living with her partner. An emotionally absent, neglectful man whose presence drained the life from our home. His home, which was also a borderline hoarder’s nightmare straight from TLC. I challenged him constantly after my dog passed away. Especially when he belittled her for waking him up crying in the middle of the night, haunted by nightmares of being buried alive. She needed love, but he offered silence and verbal abuse. So I stepped in. I became the one she could talk to, the one who listened when he wouldn't. I was okay with that role. Even if it came at the cost of my own growth. Because I had already done something similar for my dog, who was slowly dying in front of me despite everything I did to save him the month before. My dad gave me some houseplants back then, maybe hoping I’d have something to care for that could actually survive. Eventually, her partner kicked all three of us out on Christmas Day after we had a major argument. At first, everyone blamed me for pushing too hard, for not letting things go. But later, they said it was the best Christmas gift they could’ve asked for. My mom smiled more after that. She seemed lighter. And even though I was never officially her therapist, I loved listening to her. I had things to say, insights that helped, and that time we spent talking felt sacred. Looking back, it was a gift I didn’t realize I was being given. I wish I had spent more time with her. She always said that, remember?

All of these things, the deaths and displacement got in the way of my ability to enjoy college like everyone else. I didn't go to football games. I wasn’t in clubs or group chats, or photo dumps labeled “campus life <3.” There was no whirlwind of firsts, no chaotic dorm drama, no discovering myself through electives I didn’t sign up for. It’s not that I wasn’t there. I was. I was just living a very different kind of college experience. One characterized less by celebration, and more by survival.

Still, I made meaning where I could. In lectures where the material struck something deeper. In essays where I finally said what I thought. In late-night conversations that made me feel a little less alone. My path was quieter. But no less important. Not less real. Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently. If I’d had the freedom to explore, to mess up, to not carry so much weight. But that’s not the version of college I experienced. And honestly? That’s okay. This was the version that shaped me. And I think it did a pretty decent job.

So wherever you are now, whether life feels lighter or heavier, I hope you haven’t forgotten what it took to get here. I hope you still find joy in your own strange way. I hope you’re not chasing the version of college you didn’t get but instead making peace with the version of life you do have, making memories and having experiences only you can have. And I hope, above all else, that you're still growing. Something. Anything. Even if it's just another houseplant.

Sincerely,

With professional regards,

Michael Southwick, 2025.