Rooted in the Past, Dreaming of the Future: Finding Balance in the Present

Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?

If you’d asked me this question a few years ago, I’d have said I was stuck in a perpetual replay of the past—grappling with old wounds, broken relationships, and missed opportunities. My mind was like a record stuck in the groove of “what if,” unable to move forward. I spent countless hours dissecting every moment, trying to understand how I got to where I was, like a detective piecing together clues to solve a mystery long past its expiration date.

But life has a funny way of shifting your focus when you least expect it. Losing a job, moving back home, and rediscovering myself were moments that forced me to stop looking over my shoulder and start imagining what could be. Writing Diary of Clichés became a bridge between my past and future. It allowed me to examine the old stories I was telling myself—stories of heartbreak, loss, and longing—and rewrite them with hope, growth, and self-compassion.

Now, my thoughts about the future take center stage. But it’s not the kind of future filled with rigid five-year plans or unchecked ambition. It’s a softer, more expansive vision—a dream of balance, of living authentically, and of giving myself permission to evolve. I think about the life I want to create, not because I’m running away from the past, but because I’ve learned to carry its lessons without letting them weigh me down.

Still, I can’t pretend that I never glance backward. The past feels like an old friend—one who sometimes overstays their welcome but also reminds me of how far I’ve come. And when I find myself daydreaming about a future high-rise in Silicon Valley or imagining the duality of loving two people simultaneously, I know it’s my past fueling those visions, adding depth to the dreams.

So, do I spend more time thinking about the future or the past? I’d say I linger in the space between. The past gives me context; the future gives me direction. Together, they keep me grounded yet hopeful, reminding me that every cliché about time—“the past is prologue” or “the future is unwritten”—holds a seed of truth worth exploring.

In this in-between space, I’ve realized that neither the past nor the future is inherently good or bad—it’s how I choose to engage with them that matters. The past is where I’ve met the best and worst parts of myself. It’s where I learned resilience, through heartbreak and loss, and where I found my voice through vulnerability. But it’s also where I discovered patterns I didn’t want to repeat and beliefs that no longer served me.

The future, on the other hand, feels like a canvas—sometimes intimidatingly blank, sometimes splashed with dreams that feel just a little too bold. It’s where I imagine the woman I want to become, someone who honors her creativity, builds meaningful connections, and lives with intention. But even as I dream, I’ve learned not to cling too tightly to those visions. Life, after all, has a way of surprising you—just like it did when I found healing in journaling or when moving home turned out to be the reset I didn’t know I needed.

And Diary of Clichés is a reflection of this balance between past and future. Writing it forced me to look at my past without judgment and dream about my future without fear. It’s a collection of lessons, heartbreaks, and hopes that I’ve untangled and reshaped into something meaningful. It’s also a reminder to myself—and anyone who reads it—that our stories aren’t linear. They loop back on themselves, they pause, they leap forward in ways we can’t always predict.

I suppose this is why I don’t think I’ll ever fully “move on” from my past or exclusively focus on the future. Both are too important to who I am. The past is where I found the courage to write, to face my demons, and to laugh at my mistakes. The future is where I get to experiment with what comes next—whether that’s finally making peace with the messy duality of my life or dreaming up a new story entirely.

So maybe the answer isn’t about choosing one over the other but about learning how to hold both lightly. The past gives me roots; the future gives me wings. And somewhere in the present, I’ve found a way to exist in harmony with both—grateful for what’s been and hopeful for what’s yet to come.