today, I met my younger self for coffee

“When did you start drinking coffee?” she asked me.

Today, I walked into the coffee shop and sat across from my younger self. She looked good, she was smiling at me with curiosity, as if she had missed me and was eager to know what her older self looked like now. What life was like. If we felt much better.

I avoided her eyes and looked around the shop. A lot of people were meeting their younger selves, some were crying, some were laughing, and others just stared at each other, unsure of what to say or how to say what was on their minds.

I could smell the coffee from the coffee stand. It was warm and inviting. I tried to guess what type of coffee they were brewing, but I was still a newbie in the coffee world, so I had no idea.

Flowers filled the shop, different kinds, all breathtakingly beautiful. I had never received flowers before, so I couldn’t name most of them, but I spotted roses and tulips. And they were pleasing to the eye.

My younger self was still staring at me, waiting for me to speak. But I couldn’t look at her. What would I say? That I was still an emotional mess? That things got worse instead of getting better? Wouldn’t she be disappointed that I hadn’t changed as much as she had hoped? I looked around, I needed coffee. I waved at the barista and ordered a vanilla latte.

“When did you start drinking coffee?” she asked, still smiling, her look filled with love, like she had been waiting forever to meet me.

“Okay, I know tea was never really our thing either, but we could’ve gone for orange juice,” she added. “We still love orange juice, right?”

“Yes, we do,” I replied, a small smile forming. My younger self was still as witty as ever. “I just drink coffee now because it kind of keeps me sane and productive.”

She smiled back at me. That smile. The one that hid so much pain.

“It’s okay not to smile when you don’t feel like it,” I told her. “No one is going to punish you for that here or anywhere.”

I watched as she slowly relaxed her face, revealing the pain, the exhaustion, and the curiosity. She looked like the girl only I knew, the one who forced her happiness, who demanded laughter from everyone even when she was hurting.

“Are you okay now?” she asked, her expression serious. "Are we okay now?"

I felt the tears swell up. I turned my face away. How could I tell her that life didn’t get easier, it got ten times harder? That I had experienced wins but even more losses? That I had been heartbroken repeatedly and now, I avoided anything that required commitment? That I had grown so much but not so much?

I needed her to know that the obstacles we prayed against for years were finally gone, but it went with a price. A very big price. Would she be happy to know I had let go of most of her friends because I realized they weren’t good for her?

That I had learned to be alone because people disappoint, and they hurt, and they break you. She would be shocked to know that we’re no longer an extrovert but now an introvert.

I wanted to warn her about 2020 to 2022, to tell her that life would get a hundred times harder and that she’d face some of her darkest thoughts. But I’d also reassure her, no matter how heavy it gets, they’ll never consume her.

I want to tell her that life still felt uncertain, and I often had no idea what I was doing, but I kept going because that’s what everyone does. They keep going. That some days, I felt stuck, and all I could do was cry and watch movies until my eyes hurt.

But I didn’t have to say all of that because she understood. She could see the tears running down my face, and she reached out to hold my hands.

“But hey,” she said, “we made it this far, didn’t we? And we’re still going!”

She told me I looked good, that I looked exactly how she had pictured her older self. She told me how beautiful I was and how much I had grown. That I was more in touch with my feelings now, that she wondered how I learned not to hide my pain anymore under a smile. That I no longer kept friends who weren’t good to me. That I understood how tough life was, yet I kept going.

I cried while listening to her because I knew my younger self would be okay.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to be the woman you wanted. I’m sorry you had to go through so much pain growing up.”

She didn’t cry. She just smiled.

She squeezed my hands tightly. “You need to forgive yourself,” she said. “And you need to let go of the past.”

Then she leaned in. “Tell me about the good things. The joy that writing brings you. The peace you feel at random hours that no one knows. Tell me everything!”

She asked about my love life and friendships, and I told her everything. About how I was able to filter through my friends and throw out the bad ones and kept only the ones who were true to me. About how those close friends loved me deeply. About all the good things I had accomplished. About how happy writing and creating made me. About all the silly crushes I had. All the crazy escapades I've had with men. About how love now felt like a possibility. How I have learned to prioritize my happiness and cut off anything that threatened my mental health.

I told her not to worry about her constant health issues, that they would eventually go away. That she would gain enough weight to last a lifetime. And she would be genuinely happy on some days because life does get better. She laughed, this time from her belly.

She looked at me with so much love, her eyes glossy with tears. Tears of joy! She was calm and happy because I had reassured her that everything was going to be fine.

The barista arrived with my coffee—and one for her too. She took a sip and nearly choked. I burst into laughter.

“Yeah, I still don’t get why you drink this,” she said, shaking her head.

I stared at her and grinned. “One day, you will. And you’re going to love it.”

We sat there for the next thirty minutes, chatting and laughing, holding hands the whole time. There were no more tears, no more pain. Just us, catching up.

Then it was time to leave. She stood up, and we hugged, neither of us wanting to let go.

“You’re going to be okay,” I told her. “And you’re going to achieve every single one of your dreams. I am so sure of that! You have no idea how resilient and strong you are. Promise me you’ll be fine? And you’ll be strong through it all?

She nodded, her head still resting on my shoulder. The tears were coming again.

"Promise me you'll be fine too? And you'll let go of the past and forgive yourself?" She said to me.

“I will,” I whispered.

We broke the hug. She took one last sip of coffee and shook her head. “This is the most fascinating thing about meeting my older self,” she said, grinning, and then walked out.

I watched her go until I could no longer see her. I smiled to myself, realizing how far I had come. I was never perfect. But I was still standing, despite everything. And so will she!

“I think she’ll be okay,” I whispered to myself.

And I knew I would be too.