Ugh! 100 Fucking Years? Wait, what? Did our lives really stretch to a hundred in this whirlwind of an AI world?

I will cry my eyes out if I read this at 100.

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A letter to my 100-year-old self. When You Get There……

What would I say to the woman I might become?

The one who’s lived through every quiet joy, every fleeting love, every reckless hope.

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Girl…! You made it to 100. It feels surreal. Almost impossible to believe. And yet, here you are: a century of living, loving, and creating.

A quiet, miraculous testament to the passage of time. I sit here now, humbled and deeply grateful for the blessings that carried us to this extraordinary moment.

Still, even in the awe of it all, I find myself wondering. Did we live as fearlessly as we once promised ourselves we would? Did we open our arms to the unknown, take risks that made our hearts race, and write a story that was entirely, unapologetically ours?

Are you sitting in that cozy home we always dreamed of, surrounded by lush greenery, breathing in the peace we once chased so relentlessly? Did we learn that stillness isn’t about arrival, but about how we moved through the journey? I hope we did.

And what about motherhood—was it everything we imagined? Did we love with all the tenderness and fire we carried inside us?

Did we find joy in the chaos. In the little hands that once held ours, in the sleepy laughter of bedtime, in the messes that marked real life?

Did our children grow into dreamers, believers in magic and the impossible? Do they carry our strength, our softness, our light?

Tell me, are you a grandmother now? Do your grandchildren carry little fragments of us—the wild heart, the restless spirit, the dreamer who never stopped believing? Do you share our stories with them? Do they tell you theirs?

Did we become the kind of partner we hoped to be—patient, loving, understanding? Did love find us not just in the highs, but in the quiet mornings, the hard conversations, the growing pains? Was the bond we built strong enough to hold through every season, even the cold ones?

And friendship—did we honor it the way it deserved? Were we the kind of friend who showed up, who stayed, who made people feel seen and deeply loved? Did we remain our own best friend too, never forgetting the girl who carried all these questions?

Did we love ourselves fully—fiercely and freely? Did we travel far and often, not to escape, but to connect, to create moments we could never forget?

Did we laugh until our stomachs ached, cry without shame, fight for what mattered, and always find our way back to those we couldn’t live without?

Did we chase enough horizons? Did we run barefoot through the world, breathe in the untamed air, lose ourselves beneath towering trees and starry skies? Did we let ourselves be wildly, unapologetically alive?

As a daughter, did we give back the love we were given? Did we say the thank-yous that needed to be said, in time? Did we make them proud? Did we truly listen to their wisdom, even when the world pulled us elsewhere?

And him… how could I forget him?

The man who once set our blood on fire, who blurred every line between longing and lust.

Did he become more than a fantasy, or remain the ghost of a passion we never fully claimed?

Did we ever meet under the stars, whispering truths into the dark, untethered by time or place?

Did we take that long road trip (just the two of us), lost in music, hands held, gaze lingering in silence, and everything unsaid?

Did we kiss in the rain, laugh until we couldn’t breathe, make love in all the places we once dreamed, and blur the line between fantasy and reality? Or did he live only in the pages of what-if?

Did we fall in love again and again—with people, with moments, with life itself?

Did we surrender fully, or learn to master desire without losing ourselves?

Were we brave enough to reach for what we craved, or did we understand that the truest passion burns not in flames, but in the quiet embers that never die?

More than anything, did we learn to love with less weight to let go when it was time, not out of loss, but out of trust, and to love lightly with more freedom, to love without clinging, without needing to hold too tightly?

Did we finally understand that letting go isn’t about losing—it’s simply trusting?

When did we learn that freedom and devotion are not opposites, but companions?

And what about our stories? Did they make it out into the world? Did our dreams finally take flight?

Did they touch souls, stir something deep within those who read them, make someone feel a little less alone? Did our words travel farther than we ever could? Did they outlive us, whispering to strangers who saw themselves in our pages?

Did we keep finding joy in the smallest things—in morning light, in the warmth of tea, in the scent of rain on dry earth, in the sound of being called your name in the crowd, and loved unconditionally? That was what always mattered, wasn’t it?

And most of all… were we kind to ourselves?

Can you look back at me now? This younger version, still filled with hope and ache, and a smile?

Are you proud of who we became? Are you no longer chasing, just living? Still curious, still glowing, still open to the mystery of it all?

And now, as you sit there—a century in—tell me, wasn’t it all worth it?

The ache, the wonder, the surrender, the pursuit.

Did we live in such a way that even at the end, we wouldn’t trade a single moment?

Maybe she’ll read this one day or she might write back,

With a soft smile on her face, a glint in her eyes, and stardust still in her bones.

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