The Dilemma Behind the Time Capsules I Created for My Kids

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About 15 years ago, I crafted a colorful wooden box for my daughter, filled with a newspaper and some mysterious objects. Honestly, I can’t remember what I put inside, but I suspect there are some photos in there. Taped to the top is a letter addressed to her, marked “To be opened on your 18th birthday,” tied with a charming ribbon. My other daughter has a similar capsule made two years later, and both boxes are currently tucked away in the crawlspace, buried under baby memorabilia.

I was genuinely excited when I put these time capsules together, picturing the joy and curiosity on my girls’ faces as they opened them. I imagined them pondering the significance of the items I chose. There’s probably something quirky in there too, which might lead to some fun discussions.

But here’s the catch: it’s the letters that have me feeling anxious.

Before my first daughter was born, I experienced a miscarriage. It was a heart-wrenching time, and to find closure, I wrote a heartfelt letter to my lost baby, which I sealed away. I recently reread that letter, filled with the love, joy, and sorrow I felt during that fleeting time. If my time capsule letters are anything like that one, they’ll be packed with emotion—anticipation, the joy of pregnancy, and the overwhelming love I felt when I first held my daughters.

However, now I worry about the references to “your dad and me” or family photos that might remind them of our divorce. I dread the idea of my girls facing too much at once, especially the stark contrast between their past and present. They’ve turned out to be amazing individuals—healthy, sweet, and driven—despite the challenges they’ve faced growing up.

They used to know about these time capsules but may have forgotten. Now I’m left with a few choices. I could open the boxes alone to see what’s inside and decide if I want to edit any contents. Alternatively, I could wait until they’re older, allowing them to process everything at a more mature age. Another option is to let the first daughter open hers when she turns 18 and see how she reacts before deciding what to do with the second one. This choice feels a bit unfair, though, so I might skip that route.

The final option is to let them open the capsules as planned and deal with whatever comes up. While I might not look forward to the conversations this would spark, it feels more honest than censoring their letters first. When I sealed those envelopes, I believed they were gifts meant for their future selves.

As a mom, I struggle with knowing when to stop protecting my kids. I often think, “shouldn’t I shield them from pain?” But there are already enough hardships in the world without adding my own fears into the mix. Perhaps it’s time for me to revisit why I created these time capsules in the first place. Kids love hearing “The Story of You,” and my daughters often ask about their early years. They enjoy reading what they call their “funny books,” filled with their cute and hilarious moments.

By withholding or altering the time capsules, am I stealing a piece of their personal story, or have I already provided enough through journals, photos, and videos? Each capsule is a snapshot of the truth from that moment in time.

Then again, maybe these letters are more about my feelings as a mom. Will knowing how I felt back then impact them when they’re 18? Despite my concerns, it still feels like it’s fundamentally about them.

I’m leaning towards waiting a few more years to see if they can resonate with those moments when they experience their own milestones. Only then might they really connect with what I wrote—what could be considered The Story of Us.