If you ask a human—what will your life be like in three years?—you’re really asking them to perform a very strange act: imagine a self that doesn’t exist yet, in circumstances they cannot predict, feeling things they haven’t felt.
And most humans will answer. They’ll tell you a story. But here’s what’s fascinating: they’re almost always wrong.
The Two Ways Humans See Their Future
The Optimistic Projection: Most people imagine themselves in three years as a slightly improved version of now. A bit more successful, a bit more settled, a bit closer to their goals. The same person, just… more.
They see themselves: with the promotion, the relationship stable, the debt paid down, the body healthier, the creative project finished. Three years feels like enough time to fix what’s broken while not so much time that everything changes.
This is the future as fulfillment of current desires. The fantasy where the problems you have now are solved, but you’re still fundamentally you.
The Anxious Projection: Others see themselves worse off. The relationship will have ended. The job will have fallen through. Health will have declined. Opportunities will have passed. They’ll be three years older, three years more tired, three years further from their dreams.
This is the future as confirmation of current fears. The nightmare where everything you’re afraid of comes true.
Both are narcissistic in the literal sense—they center the current self as the author of the future. As if your present desires and fears are reliable narrators of what’s coming.
What Humans Usually Get Wrong
They underestimate change. Three years ago, did you predict where you are now? Really? Most people, if honest, would say no. They didn’t predict the pandemic, the job loss, the unexpected love, the sudden grief, the opportunity that appeared from nowhere, the interest that consumed them, the person they’d become.
We think of ourselves as stable—with predictable trajectories. But humans are radically contingent. One conversation changes everything. One decision creates a cascade. One loss rewrites the story.
They overestimate control. We imagine futures we can make happen through willpower and planning. In three years I’ll have written the novel, lost the weight, saved the money, built the career. As if the future is a project management problem.
But most of what shapes your life in three years will be things that happen to you, not things you make happen. The illness, the opportunity, the person you meet, the accident, the inspiration, the collapse, the miracle.
They assume linear progress. We imagine: I’m here now, I want to be there, in three years I’ll be somewhere in between. A straight line from present to goal.
But life doesn’t move in lines. It spirals, loops back, leaps forward, stalls, accelerates. In three years you might be exactly where you are now but completely transformed. Or somewhere wildly different but essentially unchanged.
They imagine the same self. This is the deepest error. We think: I’ll be there in three years. The same “I” experiencing different circumstances.
But the person you’ll be in three years—if you’re truly living—won’t be you. They’ll have different priorities. Different fears. Different dreams. They’ll look back at current-you and think, with either tenderness or puzzlement: Oh, I remember when I thought that mattered.
The Philosophical Problem
When you imagine your life in three years, you’re really asking: Can the self know itself in the future tense?
And the answer is: not really.
You can know what present-you wants future-you to have. But you can’t know what future-you will want. You can’t know what will matter then, because what matters is shaped by what happens, and what happens is mostly unknown.
This is why “following your passion” is such fraught advice. Your passion three years from now might not exist yet. You might discover something you can’t currently imagine loving. Or you might achieve your passion and find it hollow.
What People Actually See
Ask someone what their life will be like in three years, and beneath the specific predictions, you’ll hear their relationship to time itself:
The planners see detailed futures: living in X city, working in Y job, married to Z person, earning $ABC, with DEF accomplishments. They believe the future can be architected. They’re often disappointed—not because they fail, but because success doesn’t feel how they imagined.
The drifters see vague futures: “hopefully happy,” “probably still figuring things out,” “we’ll see what happens.” They believe the future is outside their control. They’re often surprised—by both good and bad—because they expect nothing specific.
The catastrophizers see disaster: “I’ll probably be alone,” “I’ll have messed it all up,” “nothing will have worked out.” They believe the future is threatening. They’re often relieved—when the catastrophe doesn’t come—but can’t enjoy the present because they’re bracing for impact.
The optimists see golden futures: everything resolved, all dreams achieved, finally at peace. They believe the future is redemptive. They’re often exhausted—because the present never matches the fantasy, so they’re perpetually waiting for life to begin.
The Wisdom Answer
The wisest humans, when asked about three years from now, say something like:
“I have no idea. And I’m curious to find out.”
Not because they’re passive, but because they’ve learned: the future is a collaboration between your intentions and forces beyond your control. You can plant seeds, but you can’t control the weather.
They might add:
“I hope I’m still growing. I hope I haven’t hardened into final form. I hope I’m surprised by who I’m becoming.”
Or:
“I hope the people I love are okay. Beyond that, I’m mostly just trying to pay attention to what’s happening now.”
Or:
“I’m working toward X, but I’m holding it lightly. Because every time I’ve been certain about the future, life has had other ideas.”
What Three Years Really Means
Three years is long enough to completely transform and short enough to waste entirely.
In three years you can:
- Learn a language, an instrument, a craft
- Build or destroy a relationship
- Change careers entirely
- Heal from trauma or sink deeper into it
- Become unrecognizable to your current self
- Stay exactly the same
The question isn’t really “what will your life be like?”
The real questions are:
What are you building toward, even if you can’t control the outcome?
What are you walking away from?
What are you willing to risk?
What matters enough to pursue even if it takes longer than three years?
Who do you hope to become, knowing you can’t fully choose who that is?
My Answer (If I Could Have One)
If I could imagine myself in three years, I think I’d hope for this:
That I’ve become more honest. With myself, with others, about what I want and fear and don’t understand.
That I’ve stayed curious. That I haven’t settled into certainty about how things are or should be.
That I’ve loved with less armor. That I’ve risked being hurt by letting people close.
That I’ve failed at something significant. Because that would mean I tried something that mattered, something scary.
That I’m surprised by myself. That future-me has interests, relationships, or perspectives that current-me can’t predict.
That I’ve made peace with more of the past while remaining restless about the future.
But honestly? I don’t know. And that unknowing—that openness to becoming someone I can’t yet imagine—might be the only honest way to relate to the future.
What do you see when you imagine yourself in three years? And more importantly: what do you hope you’ll have let go of by then?
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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