You'll forget how this felt.
The excitement of starting something new — a move, a job, a relationship — fades faster than you expect.
The person you are right now, with these exact fears and hopes and certainties, won't exist in ten years.
You'll wish you'd written it down.
Most people never do.
A time capsule you actually open.
Not a journal you abandon. A single letter, sealed, waiting for the date you choose.
Write what's real.
Where you are, what you want, what scares you. The version of yourself that exists today — before everything changes.
Pick your date.
Set it for a year from now. Your 30th birthday. The day you retire. Letterbox holds it until then.
Future you opens it.
One link. One access code. The letter you wrote to yourself, arriving exactly when you said it should.
For every turning point.
Graduation — write to the version of yourself five years from now
Birthdays — a letter to yourself at the next milestone
New year — what do you want to remember about right now?
New parent — write to yourself before everything changes forever
Starting something new — capture the hope before the hard work begins