On paper, ten years sounds simple. It’s just a number. In real life, ten years feels enormous. Ten years ago, I could not have accurately predicted where I would be now—who I’d marry, where I’d live, what work I’d be doing, what losses I’d carry, what joys would surprise me, or what burdens would arrive uninvited.
So answering where I see myself in ten years feels less like making a plan and more like admitting that life rarely honors neat outlines.
If all goes well, I’d like to think I’m still writing. Still teaching in some form, even if not in the same classroom. Still with a glass of something good now and then, still talking through life with people who matter, still finding meaning in ordinary moments that younger versions of me probably would have overlooked.
I hope there’s peace. That becomes more valuable as the years pass. Not excitement all the time, not constant achievement—just peace. The kind that lets you sit quietly at the end of a day and not feel like everything is unfinished.
I’d also like to think ten years from now I’ve learned better what deserves energy and what doesn’t. Some things that feel urgent now won’t matter much then. Some things that matter deeply now—people, faith, family, grace—will still be the things that matter most.
And if experience has taught me anything, it’s that ten years from now probably won’t look exactly like anything I imagine today. Life has a habit of editing our outlines and handing back a draft we didn’t expect.
Which, honestly, is probably just as well. Some of the best chapters were never part of the original plan.
