Reimagining the Future

When we talk about rewriting personal narratives, we often focus on the past—unpacking the wounds, tracing the patterns, understanding the roots. And while this work matters deeply, there’s another part of the story that’s just as important:

What comes next?

For many of us, the future can feel vague, unreachable, or even threatening. If we’ve experienced trauma, loss, or long periods of survival mode, it’s easy to become hyper-focused on getting through the day rather than dreaming of what could be. Imagining a future beyond the current version of our lives may feel indulgent or foolish. Why hope, when we don’t know what will happen next?

But here’s something we believe deeply at The Rewrite Workshops:

Writing is one of the safest places to practice possibility.

There is no risk in a blank page. There’s no judgment, no consequence, no need for permission. The page doesn’t care about your résumé, your relationship status, your bank account, or your track record. It only asks that you show up with curiosity. And once you do? The page becomes a doorway into a life where things feel a little more aligned, like a version of you that has grown into your voice and a world where your needs are not just acknowledged but met.

Try This Prompt: Write a “Future Memory”

Close your eyes for a moment and imagine yourself six months from now. Or maybe a year. Or five. Whatever time frame feels manageable. Now imagine a day in your life when things feel more grounded, more whole.

Where do you wake up?

What do you hear first thing in the morning?

Who’s around you (or not)?

What does your body feel like as you move through the day?

What are you making space for?

Write this “future memory” as if it’s already happened. Describe it in sensory detail (what you see, hear, feel, or smell). Let it become vivid.

The goal isn’t to create a goal. The goal is to create possibility, to show yourself that another reality exists beyond your current circumstances, habits, and assumptions. Even if the day doesn’t play out exactly as imagined, the act of writing it is transformative. It stretches the boundaries of what you believe is possible.

If this feels corny, idealistic, or too “woo,” that’s okay. You can write through the resistance, too.

Sometimes, when we’ve been stuck in the same story for a long time—stories of fear, scarcity, or shame—it’s hard to trust that we have agency. But agency doesn’t always mean making huge changes overnight. It can begin with a sentence. A sentence that dares to say, What if it could be different?

And even if nothing changes right away, you’ve already started something powerful by naming what you want. You’ve begun to tell a new story.