Letters to Self- Urging Myself to Show up Regularly
On days when the two callings, duty and deity, got in a tug-of-war
There’s a folder on my Supernote called “Journals”.
Morning pages. Night musings. Half-formed prayers. Angry rants. Letters I never sent.
Most of these pages were never meant for anyone. They were just me trying to stay human in a world that keeps asking for performance.
Lately, I’ve been feeling a quiet nudge:
What if I opened this door a little?
This is strictly not to perform vulnerability. Nor to impress you with my pain or my wisdom. But to show you what a mind actually looks like when it’s not dressed up for the internet.
That’s what this new series is about.
What are “Letters to Self”?
They’re journal entries written to one specific person: me. Ansh is the name I have given myself.
Sometimes it’s the scared boy who grew up trying to be “good” for everyone.
Sometimes it’s the tired man who wants to quit everything and move to the mountains.
Sometimes it’s the part of me that still believes life can be beautiful, even here, even now.
I write to myself because advice from outside rarely finds home within.
But a question, honestly asked from the soul, can change the way you see your own life. Isn’t it?
Why share something so private?
Because I’m tired of reading pieces that sound like they were assembled by a committee (human or AI).
You deserve to read a mind that is:
confused, but honest
contradictory, but trying
afraid, but still showing up
And I need a place where I can stop pretending I’ve figured things out and instead invite you into the middle of the struggle.
Maybe you’ll see your own questions hiding between my sentences.
Have you ever looked at your old journals and thought, “Someone should have told this version of me that he was doing okay”?
That’s what I’m trying to do here.
What to expect
From time to time, I’ll take a real entry from my private journals—morning pages, night musings, letters to a future self—and share it here.
I’ll do three things:
Give you a little context: when/where I wrote it, what I was wrestling with.
Share the letter almost as it was written (lightly edited for clarity and privacy).
Add a short reflection from where I am today.
No “5 tips”. No clean conclusions. Just one human being, learning in public how to be a whole person.
If you read these Letters to Self, I don’t want you to agree with me.
I want you to feel gently provoked to ask yourself:
What would my letter to myself say today?
What part of me have I been refusing to listen to?
What if I gave that voice a page, and let it speak?
You’re welcome to sit in this corner of the internet with me.
I’ll bring the journals.
You bring your questions.
Dear Ansh,
I admire people who show
constant devotion to their craft
and are disciplined enough
to show up consistently.
Mastery will be attained of its own accord.
Like Maria Popova publishing at least one article daily
and practising guided meditation to the same track by Tara Brach.
It will get tedious, boring, mundane and even loathsome at times,
but one still goes on and moves beyond these ‘trivial’ affairs
to achieve greatness as a byproduct.
Will you be the one waking up daily at the same time,
and doing Morning Pages?
Maybe reflecting upon your life.
Maybe just sitting and doing nothing.
Do it for 5 mins that doesn’t matter but do it everyday.
I will nudge all along the way, Ansh. Keep moving!
Your Anshly,
Aman
Context
I wrote this letter to myself on a day when discipline felt like a distant country.
I was obsessing over people who show up every single day for their craft—the kind of quiet, unfancy devotion that doesn’t make headlines. I had been watching Maria Popova publish relentlessly and listening to the same meditation track by Tara Brach on repeat, and a question kept burning:
What would it mean for me to stay with something long enough for mastery to arrive “of its own accord”?
This was my way of reminding myself that boredom, tedium, even loathing are not signs to stop.
I was tired of grand plans: perfect routines, 5 a.m. alarms, ideal writing schedules that collapsed within a week. So I tried a smaller dare:
What if I just woke up at roughly the same time and gave myself five undisturbed minutes—no productivity, no performance—just Morning Pages, reflection, or even “doing nothing”?
It felt less like a command and more like a gentle contract with myself.
Reflection from today
Reading this now, I smile at how much I romanticise other people’s discipline.
The real invitation here is simple and uncomfortable:
Can I be loyal to my own craft for long enough to cross the boring parts?
If this letter stirs something in you, maybe ask:
Where in your life are you one boring, repetitive act away from becoming the kind of person you secretly admire?
What I like about this version of me is that he isn’t asking for an overhaul. He’s asking for five minutes of honesty.
The real work never lies in some perfect routine. It’s in showing up long enough for those five minutes daily.
If you’re reading this, maybe the question for you is not,
“Can I transform my life tomorrow?”
but simply,
“Can I gift myself five undistracted minutes today—and actually keep that promise?”