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(New to this series? I’m so glad you’re here! Radiant Beast: The Open Workbook series announcement lays the foundation for everything that follows.)
Last New Year’s, I sat down to engage in my annual ritual of writing a letter from the vantage point of my future self; a letter describing, in detail, what my life now looked like in early 2026. I tucked it away and have not looked at it since. I will read it on New Year’s Eve this year. I have written about this practice in the past, and I plan to continue it with devotion. I have heard from others in our community who now also embrace it, finding it both fun and motivating. The concept is simple: the more vividly you can connect with the exhilarating future you want to inhabit, the more likely you are to consciously orient your present self toward the steps required to make it real.
My favorite part of the process is forgetting what I wrote. When I return to the letter on New Year’s Eve, it moves from time capsule to tool; a moment to reflect on what has come to be, including surprises and serendipitous outcomes, as well as areas that still require work. I am always equally excited to channel my next future self to compose another letter. Over time, this practice has evolved. It is no longer only about what my future self says, but how she says it. What is the cadence of her voice? How do the words move melodically from her mouth? How does she hold herself in space? Is she wearing all black, or dark emerald with splashes of magenta? Do her statement earrings, dangling glass jewels, refract the light against my face as she leans in to whisper how my life has changed, and how I carried myself there?
My New Handwriting
Something was different about my letter this year. For the first time, my future self wrote it by hand. At the beginning of 2024, I decided to intentionally craft and practice a new form of handwriting. I had always been a little self-conscious about my handwriting. It felt sloppy and uncultivated, lacking style; as though my handwritten words were out of control, squiggling onto the page by themselves, not arranged by my conscious volition or a force that felt my own.
In the early days of 2024, I decided to take the steps needed to change it. I had considered this many times before, but I had never committed to putting it on a vision board—or, as neuroscientist Dr. Tara Swart calls it, an “action board”—a practice grounded in motivating behavior rather than materializing magic. This year felt different. I sensed that the act itself mattered, that it was about far more than handwriting. It felt symbolic: a marker of how I had evolved, how I had transmuted past trauma after bringing my bipolar I disorder into remission through metabolic therapies, and how I was finding a path toward mindful refinement and a renewed enjoyment of life.
I chose a font in Canva with a pleasing sense of flow. I made and printed out practice sheets like the ones children use when learning to write capitals and lowercase letters. I customized the font, deciding which stylized features to omit and which to amplify. For a few weeks, I practiced through tracing and journaling, pausing over many awkward discrepancies as my hand slowly adapted.
At first, the new script felt stilted and contrived. I had to think deliberately about each letter as I formed it. I was surprised, though, by how quickly the process became automated and by how much pleasure I began to take in it: the motion of the curls, the ease of gliding along the f’s and i’s. Writing handwritten notes and cards became something I genuinely enjoyed for the first time.
When I started my role as Communications and Advocacy Manager at Metabolic Mind at the end of 2023 and writing became part of my daily work, I found myself journaling more by hand. It offered my eyes a rest from screens and signaled that this was a distinct practice, something private and solely for me.
I am excited to read my first handwritten letter from my future self and, then, to listen deeply to what 2027 Hannah has to tell me. I know that, in the coming year, I will seek to bring other elements into my action board that will share a similar power. New handwriting became a signifier; a reminder that the devil really is in the details. Our lives are often shaped more than we realize by minute details that send signals, both conscious and unconscious, about who we are and who we are capable of becoming. My decision to change my handwriting, and to automate it into something I relish, became a tangible example of the power of neuroplasticity; of the exquisite malleability of aspects of ourselves that may feel fundamental and fixed, but in reality are highly moldable.
Are there things you might consider changing in the new year like this? Not as a means to an end, but as a symbolic marker of your evolution that adds richness and affirms that you can reshape your life in unexpected ways.
I was genuinely surprised by how quickly my new handwriting became second nature. I’m not sure I could write in my old style even if I tried. Perhaps I should experiment with that, too, and try channeling my past self. She may have something to tell me as well.
