A couple of weeks ago, I got an email with a subject line that read: “Forbes Time Capsule: Hello Lizzie!” Immediately, my brain zoomed back 20 years and I saw myself, then 29, sitting at my oversize desk surrounded by stacks of file folders and billing logs. The email was from me, written on Nov. 17, 2005. It was part of an experiment run by Forbes.com from Oct. 24, 2005, to Nov. 30, 2005. I was one of 140,000 participants and one of 19% who chose the longest possible amount of time for delivery: 20 years.This is what 29-year-old me wrote to 49-year-old me:I’m guessing that you’ve “come a long way baby!” Right now, I’m e-mailing you from my desk at Counseling4Kids, where I’m working as a biller. Right now, I’m living on Parkman Avenue in Silver Lake with Greg (still my boyfriend – is he my husband yet?) and our three babies: Henry, Dooley and Scooter. They are all black and white and their fur smells wonderful! I’m in the process of applying to graduate school for a Master’s in Social Work. I will apply to UC-Berkeley and UCLA first, and then if I get rejected, I’ll attempt to get into a “lesser” school. The important thing to know about me right now is: I’M HAPPY. I just am. Life is good. We’re going to Greg’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving. His mother has leukemia. His nephew will be there. He’s 8 months old. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve realized your potential―at least SOME of it anyway. Can you believe you wanted to kill yourself once? You’re in a safe place now. Keep saving the world. Be at peace!!!The first few days after I read it, I was in shock. It was like getting a letter from a kid who you know gets hit by a bus five minutes after she puts it in the mailbox. “Lizzie” was in for a rough 20 years. I was angry at this message filled with naïveté and foolishness.Greg and I are, in fact, married now. The Thanksgiving I mentioned in the 2005 email was the last time I would see his mother alive; she died two months later. Greg proposed to me with her engagement ring two months after that.The author, Liz, and her husband, Greg, on their wedding day.Photo Courtesy Of Liz BrownI ended up in one of the prestigious social work programs and borrowed the full tuition and living expenses, for a soul-crushing experience from start to finish. Now, at age 49, I owe $30,000 more than I borrowed 19 years ago. I’m grateful I was able to leave the field and find other work. I now realize maybe I should have checked out one of those “lesser” schools.“Can you believe you ever wanted to kill yourself?” 29-year-old me asked 49-year-old me.“Oh, babe,” I want to write back to her.After two hospitalizations for suicidal depression at age 21 and years of therapy and medication, I thought the worst of my mental health issues were behind me. I was so wrong. At age 36, I fell off a depression cliff. At 49, I am still recovering from it.The therapist I went to in the darkest period of my life was profoundly unethical and exploitative. Years after I filed a complaint about his abuse, both of his licensing boards gave him a slap on the wrist with a couple of years’ probation.I made it. I survived. But there were so many times over the years that I thought I was a goner — that I would never be able to get through the day without my brain attacking itself, telling me the world was better off without me. 29-year-old me would be so heartbroken.I talk about my “babies” in the email — three cats that we spoiled incessantly, knowing for certain that we never wanted to have a human child of our own. Things change. I realized at age 38 I wanted a child with Greg.The author on the day she gave birth to her son, John.Photo Courtesy Of Liz BrownI got pregnant instantly but the pregnancy was a nightmare — panic attacks all day every day and the return of my suicidal thoughts while I grew a child inside me. I gave birth to the most beautiful child, whom Greg and I named John after both of our grandfathers. We wanted and still want everything in the world for him. But more heartbreak was coming for us.At age 3, John was diagnosed with severe autism. He is nearly 10 now and cannot speak and can barely communicate. He screams and sobs, and we don’t know why. It’s a special kind of hell to watch your child suffer and be unable to tell you if he’s in pain, if he’s sad, if he’s angry, if someone is mistreating him, or something else we can’t even imagine. It hurts all the time, even in the happy moments.There are some happy moments. When he’s giddy with laughter jumping on the bed, wanting hugs and kisses, or grabbing my arm and wrapping it around him in bed when it’s time for sleep. There are moments when we share eye contact. I know, in those moments, that I have only seconds to connect with him. I peer back at him and try to pour my love for him out of my eyes.“Hi, Johnny,” I say. “Hi. Hi, baby. I love you. I see you. I see your beautiful eyes.”And then he’s gone again.The author with her son, John, in Vermont.Photo Courtesy Of Liz Brown29-year-old me would have been such a better mother than 49-year-old me. I was stronger, more compassionate, more selfless and less angry.John is becoming progressively more difficult to care for as he grows larger and physically stronger. A very specific fear looms over us always: What happens to him when his father and I are both gone? We can’t die. We can’t even grow weak. We have to grow physically and mentally stronger as we grow older. It is impossible.While other parents obsess over their kids’ future college education, I wonder if there will be a group home that will protect him and care for him when we’re gone or no longer physically strong enough to give him what he needs. The idea that there will be no one looking out for him is terrifying.In the weeks since reading the email, I feel changed. I’ve been forced to look at the person I was before 20 years of life happened to me. I have indeed “come a long way baby,” just not the way I expected. I’m so glad 29-year-old Lizzie was happy. I appreciate her wish that I be at peace, but I’m unsure whether it’s possible. The author's husband with his mother before she died.Photo Courtesy Of Liz Brown29-year-old me would be devastated to learn how heavy my heart became. She would remind me of the things I have to celebrate.Greg has been my partner, best friend, and the love of my life for nearly 24 years. We met at a bar on New Year’s Eve four months after I moved to Los Angeles. We kissed at midnight and have been together ever since. We have gone through hell together more than once and come out on the other side, still together. We bought a house in Vermont, directly behind the high school I graduated from over 30 years ago. I never would have dreamed it. It’s a beautiful blue country house built in 1906 with a massive yard and a tree swing that my son loves so much. Our jobs keep us in Los Angeles for now, but some day I dream of spending every summer there in the backyard with sprinklers and water balloons, a trampoline for John, a vegetable garden.And I hope, over the next 20 years, I can let go of some of the guilt and worry that surrounds my relationship with my beautiful son. I just want to know him — what he loves and doesn’t love, what he thinks about, how he sees the world. I want to know everything. I will keep chasing those moments of connection and keep hoping for the miracle that lets him talk to me.Another 20 years from now, I’ll be 69, if I survive. If I were to send another time capsule into the future, it would read:“Oh, my God. Are you OK? I can’t even imagine what you’ve gone through. I’m scared for you. I’m working hard to make things better for you. I am terrified to ask about John. I’m terrified for you all. Are you alive? And Greg? John? Sending love. Sending, oh God I have no idea. Sending … condolences? Best wishes? Congratulations? I know you’re gonna do the absolute best you can over the next 20 years. I believe in you. I know you’re trying. Whatever happens, please know I’m rooting for you.”I won’t try to guess what happens next. 49-year-old me is wise enough to know I have no idea.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.