Talking to the Future: A Dialogue on Hope

I recently found myself talking to the Future. I wasn’t sure how it started—maybe it was the weight of uncertainty, the questions I had about where things were going, or the simple act of reflecting on my own path. But there I was, speaking to the Future, and the first thing I wanted to say was: I’m sorry.

Me: I wanted to apologize.

The Future: That’s no way to start a conversation.

Me: You’re right, but I still feel like I need to ask for forgiveness.

The Future: What for?

Me: For mistakes I’ve made. For wrong choices. For moments when I didn’t fully respect the gift of life. For everything we do in this world—the madness, the mess—for not knowing how to stop it, for having so much to fix, and for not succeeding.

The Future: Are you representing the whole world now, or just yourself?

Me: I don’t know anymore. Aren’t the two connected? So much is wrong, and I don’t know if I’m doing enough. Truthfully, I don’t even know what exactly to do.

The Future: The Future: Slow down. You’ll reach me no matter what—whether you run, pause, hesitate, or get tangled in your thoughts. Can you start with yourself?

Me: That sounds reasonable. When I look at my past, I’m not even sure I want to apologize anymore. Every decision I’ve made has led me to where I am now. One of the things I’ve learned through the Pantarei Approach is to examine those decisions—not to judge them, but to ask why I made them. What motivated me beyond fear, beyond the need for love or belonging? What truly guided my choices?

I take a deep breath. My body is here, right now, in this moment. I place a hand on my chest, feeling its rise and fall. The air is real, my presence is real, and the weight of my thoughts lighten, even if just a little. I know I am alive and that my body is moving in time, even if I don’t always know where it’s leading me.

The Future: And what did you discover?

Me: I found understanding. And with that, empathy for myself. In the language of Pantarei, I’ve come to see my unique path and how even what I once called ‘mistakes’ revealed more about who I am. Without those mistakes, I wouldn’t have co-founded the Pantarei Approach.

The Future didn’t answer. She had no voice or shape anymore. One moment, she was a cloud; the next, the air itself or waves crashing on a shore. She was already here and now. She had both the face of an old woman and that of a newborn baby.

I notice the feeling in my legs, the ground beneath my feet. This moment is mine. The future isn’t here yet, but my breath is. My heartbeat is. I exist in the uncertainty of what will come, but I also exist in the certainty of this very moment.

The future: What does seeing your life in this way do to you and your relationship with me?

Me: When I see my life in this way, I feel less burdened by the need to carry the whole world on my shoulders. Everything around me is in turmoil, and I know I can’t stop it. But I can choose my steps.

The Future: And how do you choose?

Me: I don’t think there’s one way. Every decision matters—not that you have to overthink them, but because even the smallest things shape your day. The drink you reach for in the morning, the TV show you watch, the path you take just because it feels right at that moment—all become part of your life. Maybe the only thing I know for sure is that I want to keep talking to you, Future. And I want our conversations to start with something other than an apology.

The Future: I would appreciate that. Honestly, I get tired of people beginning with what they regret. There are so many possibilities and so much creativity waiting to unfold. I have much more interesting things to talk about than accepting apologies. Here, where I exist, you can’t even make a mistake—there are endless possibilities.

Me: Can I talk to you about hope?

The Future: That’s my middle name.

Me: I don’t always see it. Sometimes, I just see darkness and dead ends.

The Future: Sounds like you need a new pair of glasses. If you keep looking into the darkness long enough, you’ll start to see the light.

Me: The way I find light is by feeling myself fully—by embracing my entire history, even the parts I once called mistakes. When I connect with my emotions, my journey, and who I am, that’s when I also feel connected to everything beyond me. And that’s when I find light. Sometimes, it’s a flicker. Sometimes, it shines far away. Sometimes, it’s inside me. Sometimes, it’s beyond the mountains.

I stretch my fingers, noticing the sensation of movement, the sensation of aliveness. I think about the future, and I know that no one can guarantee what it holds. But I can feel this moment. I can breathe, stretch my arms wide open, and know that I am here now.

The Future: And this light—is it pure and bright?

Me: Not exactly. Sorry—

The Future: Again, with the apologies?

Me: I meant to say that this light is… rich, wild, even. It is not the polished kind of beauty but something raw and alive. It has the colors I love most and shades I can’t stand. It holds joy and sorrow, music and silence, movement and stillness. It contains life—and yes, also death.

The Future: And does it also have hope?

Me: I see what you’re saying. Hope isn’t some perfect, untouched thing. It’s not the innocence we might have once had. Hope is a conversation with you. It’s unpredictable, but it keeps us moving. It’s what nudges us to make another choice, to smile at a stranger, to read a book, to give or receive a session, to search, and yes, sometimes to just sit and let time pass. Hope is action, and it doesn’t ask for apologies or perfection. It only asks that we keep talking to it—even when we’re not sure it’s there.

When I think about hope, I don’t only think about the future. I don’t see it as a straight path from the past to what’s ahead. My history, including the choices I once regretted, is always present. The history of those who came before me is here, too. Talking to the Future is also about acknowledging the past, about recognizing that hope isn’t something far away—it exists in the choices we make today. Cultivating hope means engaging in a conversation with the future we envision, the future we wish for—and realizing that, in some way, that future is already part of our lives.

Do you ever catch yourself talking to the future—whether in hopes, worries, or daydreams? What kind of conversation do you want to have?

Written by Vered Manasse, Co-Founder of the Pantarei Approach