If You Could Meet the Person You Used to Be       

By Joe Larano Jr.

On quiet winter evenings in Kelowna, British Columbia, Ben and Nina Santos often sat by their apartment window overlooking the frozen edge of Okanagan Lake. Across the water, scattered lights shimmered like distant memories, present yet unreachable.

A decade earlier, they had arrived in Canada with suitcases and a thick envelope of documents, believing that sacrifice would eventually lead to stability. Like many immigrants, they carried not only belongings but entire former identities packed into hope. Reality, however, proved less predictable.

Ben, once a civil engineer in Batangas City, worked night shifts maintaining commercial buildings. Nina, formerly a public-school teacher, is on temporary jobs. Retail during holidays and housekeeping in tourist season. Their schedules kept them busy but rarely fulfilled. They were grateful, yet a quiet awareness lingered that life had taken an unexpected detour.

One weekend, while reorganizing their storage, Nina discovered an envelope labeled, “Open in 10 Years.” Before leaving the Philippines, they had written letters to their future selves — an act they did during their farewell dinner with friends and relatives.

They opened the letters slowly. Inside were predictions of professional success, financial comfort, and a home filled with warmth. The words carried the certainty of people who believed effort alone could shape destiny. Reading them felt like meeting younger versions of themselves who had not yet encountered the weight of starting over.

For days, the letters remained on the kitchen table, quietly confronting them with expectations that had not materialized. Yet instead of regret, something unexpected surfaced.

Those younger voices revealed not naivety, but courage. It had taken extraordinary resolve simply to leave everything familiar behind. The letters became less a measure of failure and more a reminder of the strength that had begun their journey. Gradually, both began reconsidering what was still possible.

Ben enrolled in a bridging program for internationally trained engineers at the University of British Columbia Okanagan campus. The decision meant attending evening classes after overnight shifts, studying through exhaustion, and sacrificing precious rest. Progress was slow, often discouraging, but steady.

Nina volunteered at a community center tutoring immigrant children. What began as a temporary commitment gradually restored her confidence. Teaching again, even informally awakened a sense of purpose she had quietly missed. Eventually, Ben secured an entry-level engineering position with a local firm. It did not restore his former stature, but it marked a return to the profession he loved. Nina obtained a permanent role as an educational assistant at a nearby school, providing stability that temporary work never offered.

They had not achieved the exact future described in their letters, but they were no longer merely surviving.

On the anniversary of rediscovering the envelope, they walked along the lakeshore in early autumn. The water, no longer frozen, reflected gold and amber leaves drifting across its surface. They reflected on who they had been ten years earlier. Those younger selves might not recognize the path their lives had taken, but they would recognize the resilience that carried them forward. Life had not unfolded according to plan. It had unfolded according to persistence.

For anyone feeling delayed, uncertain, or left behind, the story of Ben and Nina offers a quiet reassurance: progress is not always dramatic, and success is not always visible. Often, it appears in the form of stability regained, confidence rebuilt, and purpose rediscovered.

If you could meet the person you used to be, that person might not ask whether you achieved every dream. Instead, they might simply ask whether you kept going.

And if the answer is yes, then you have already honored the courage that once set you on your path. Keep moving forward. The life you hoped for may not come in the form you expected but it may already be unfolding, shaped by strength you discovered only because you refused to stop.