Every culture has a tradition that makes me stop and think, “Why do we not do this more often?”
For me, Japan’s Tanabata, also known as the Star Festival, is one of those traditions.
Celebrated each year on July 7, Tanabata is inspired by an ancient Japanese legend about two lovers represented by the stars Vega and Altair. Separated by the Milky Way, they are allowed to reunite just once a year. Their story has become a beautiful reminder that some dreams are worth waiting for and that hope is something we choose to hold onto, even when life feels uncertain.
One of my favorite Tanabata traditions is writing a wish on a colorful strip of paper called a tanzaku and hanging it from a bamboo branch.
Originally, these wishes often focused on becoming wiser, improving a skill, or growing into a better version of yourself. Today, people write wishes for health, happiness, love, peace, family, success, and dreams that are close to their hearts.
The bamboo, always reaching toward the sky, symbolizes growth and carries those wishes upward.
I absolutely love that idea.
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about intentions — not just the things I hope happen, but the person I hope to become.
This year, instead of writing down a long list of goals, I think I will write something much simpler:
As many of you know, this past year has changed me in ways I never expected. Losing my dad taught me that life is both incredibly fragile and unbelievably beautiful. It reminded me that joy and grief can exist together. Sometimes all it takes is a butterfly, a rainbow, a field of peonies, or a sunset to remind us that hope is still here if we are willing to look for it.
In many ways, Tanabata feels like it belongs alongside that philosophy. It is not really about wishing for something to magically happen.
It is about making a promise to yourself.
A promise to keep growing.
To keep believing.
To keep looking toward the stars, even on the days when the sky feels cloudy.
This year, I am going to hang my wish from a tree we planted outside our home that we have lovingly named the Joaquín Tree. Every time I see it, I hope it reminds me not only of the promise I made to myself, but of the life I am growing alongside it — not just today, but throughout the year. Maybe one day, years from now, Joaquín will hang a wish there with his own family. I like that thought.
Maybe that is the real magic of traditions like this. They do not change the future. They quietly change us.
So today, I would love to ask you: If you could write one wish for your future self, what would it say?
I would love to hear it in the comments.
Happy Tanabata. 🎋✨
