Dear Joanie: What a Letter From My Future Self Taught Me About Kindness

Virginia Woolf’s Lesson on Vulnerability: Seeking Safety in a Wild World

The anonymously gifted “Joy” stone I found near my doorway during the pandemic in 2020. I still have it

“Dear Joanie,”

I start a letter to me from my future self and scrawl, “Honey. . . ”

Then pause: What exactly should this future me tell me now?

And so, with the question introduced, my pen sprints onto the page. I scribble, writing nearly unintelligibly, as quickly as possible. It starts as a riff on my tendency toward kindness. That I’d been thoughtful. Like how I‘m drawn to seek out the outlier in groups, such as in my daughter’s third-grade parent meeting when I spotted one of the same-sex parents alone in the corner of the classroom and drew her in.

But then the scratching takes me into times I haven’t been generous. Too many. Frankly, those stick with me more: Cutting off a family of four for a cab. Staying silent when a stupid joke embarrassed another. Not responding to the elderly man who needed help in the airport check-in lane.

Each cringing occurrence feels like splinters that still stay painfully burrowed deep under my skin.

What can my future self tell me I’ll do now in response? That this realization today is a pivot—the moment I choose greater alertness and unconditional compassion over the “breeze-by” careless habits of a busy life? That not only do I regret those mistakes, but learn from them? That I bridge the gap between my cursory self and my kind self?

But how?

Thank heavens, Virginia gives me an example.

The Map of May 1st

Virginia Woolf understood vulnerability. On May 1, 1912, she wrote a letter to her future husband, Leonard Woolf:

“I think that you could give me everything I want. . .[I have a] great need for protection and reassurance.”

So vulnerable here! A naked request. A rare moment of confessing her need for a specific kind of kindness—one that offers safety and comfort. I understand instantly. We all need a safe place to suit up and bolster our courage before going out into this whirligig, wild world.

Then I noticed she wrote this letter on May 1. As I write this, the first day of May is at the end of the week.

May 1 is also May Day, a day that carries the nearly forgotten tradition of giving May Baskets. Back in the 19th and early 20th centuries, people would create small baskets filled with spring wildflowers and treats, then hang them anonymously on the doorknobs of neighbors, friends, or the elderly.

The original Random Act of Kindness.

I love that the gift-giving was anonymous. The thoughtful spring-scented bouquets were given without credit or a “thank you,” purely a gesture to celebrate the arrival of spring and to brighten someone’s day.

This anonymous gift-giving happened in my neighborhood during the pandemic. One day, small, flat, smooth stones appeared on our doorsteps painted in bold blue, sunny yellow or pretty pink with a single word in bright white—“joy,” “peace,” “hope.” Much later I found out the unidentified gifts came from my own next-door neighbor.

The cool weight of my “Joy” still fits perfectly in the palm of my hand.

The “250 Acts” Maypole

Historically, May Day celebrations also included the Maypole, where participants wove ribbons together until they formed a tight, colorful pattern. I remember clutching a bedraggled ribbon and dancing around a Maypole with other kids to create a cheerful braid in kindergarten.

It’s a visual metaphor for how kindness works. One single act (one ribbon) might seem small, but intertwine them through a community, and they create a strong, beautiful support system that holds everyone together.

I’m not the only one feeling this pull. Right now, there’s a national movement called the “United States of Kindness.” Launched on April 24, the intention is to motivate millions to help hit a collective goal of 250 million acts of care this year to mark our nation’s 250th anniversary. No big feats here; 250 small, intentional acts per person instead.

Hey, look at that: Being kind is a team sport!

The Weaving of the Ribbon

David R. Hawkins wrote, “The key to Joy is unconditional kindness to all of life, including one’s own, which we refer to as compassion.”

So, as my future self writes to me, I’m thinking that since I want to be the person who stops for the elderly man in the airport, then I must stop being the person who berates myself for the times I didn’t. That I learn lingering regret can serve a purpose to prod me to do better. That I can follow that nudge, realizing that the gentleman in the airport actually gifted me a ribbon to weave, and I can honor it through change.

My future self tells me that thanks to this revelation, I learned to slow down my dance. Those ribbons in the airport were frayed because I was moving too fast to catch them. That I realized I couldn’t create a braided Maypole without the other dancers.

Now, when the whirligig pace threatens to take over, I can try to remember the weight of that blue stone in my palm—a reminder to be heavy enough to stay put, rather than getting carried away in the rush. To step back from the chaos to see that I can make space for conscientious choice. I can be that safe place for myself, providing the “protection and reassurance” Woolf sought, which in turn allows me to see the world more clearly.

Creating space for kindness.

“Why did I write this letter to you, Joanie?” says my future self. “I’m telling you this so you remember that the world is only as wild as we let it be. You have already begun this work. You are a weaver, you have always been a weaver, and you, dear one, are kind.”

Warmly,