I Met My Younger Self for Coffee Today
A trend I can get behind.
How would a meeting with your younger self go? What would you talk about, how would you both feel?
A few weeks ago, a poem by Jennae Cecelia made the rounds on social media that inspired a lot of us to reflect on what could happen if we met our past selves for coffee. How it might feel to sit across from ourselves at a younger age, witnessing first hand where we were, with the wisdom that can only come with age and experience.
I thought, what version of my younger self would I meet? What would we talk about? Would she be disappointed? Or relieved, seeing her future self sitting across the table?
Then, my mind races. What are the rules? Can I even tell her what lies ahead? Am I allowed to reassure her, in clear words, that everything will get better? Give her actual examples? Tell her about her future love and career?
I probably can’t, though — the Butterfly Effect of it all.
Besides, I don’t think that’s the point of Jennae’s poem. In her poem, she shows up for her younger self. By doing so, it reassures her. The feeling of being acknowledged, by your future self — or anyone, really — brings comfort.
But maybe, I can make my own rules here without consequences, and really make sure she knows she will make it to the other side and will live a happy life.
I wanted to meet myself at twelve. At seventeen. At twenty-two. Twenty-seven. My memory of my twenties is fond, but I know I went through some tough things. My scars have faded, but are still etched into my skin. Would she see them, and if so, would she ask about them?
Here goes — a short essay of what I envision the meeting to be like, if I were to meet my younger self for coffee.
I met my younger self for coffee today.
We arrive at the same time — early. Some things never change.
She’s wearing jeans and an IU hoodie, has a messy bun and those damn ballet flats. Never could get through to her that those were the worst shoes to wear. I wince at the sight, knowing back surgery is in her future.
She looks me up and down. My hair and nails are done but I’m in leggings and a hoodie. I can’t help but wonder if she is disappointed, seeing she will still be struggling with her weight far into the future. I’m probably projecting my insecurities, because I don’t remember ever judging people in this way when I was younger (or now). I stand up straight and try to appear confident in my skin, because she needs to know that’s what really matters. If I’m being honest, I also need the reminder.
We order the same thing — skinny caramel macchiato. Some things never change.
We sit at a table by the window. I ask her how things are and she sighs, heavily. Says I don’t want to hear about it. She’d rather know how things end up. Who gave me the ring on my finger. If I found a job, if I’m writing. If I’m happy.
I smile and give her the reassurance she’s seeking: yes, I am happy. That’s all you need to know. Then, I tell her I need to know about how she is, and what’s going on in her life. I think I remember, but I need a refresher.
The funny thing about growing older is, you really do think you remember everything just as it happened. In truth, every moment, every recollection, is a sandcastle slowly sinking into the tide. Tiny grains of sand start disappearing, one by one into the ebb, and the castle is lost forever.
My younger self sits back and sips her latte, telling me about her classes and the boy she’s seeing. I keep a straight face. She pauses, nodding toward my ring finger again. She asks if he ever comes around. I reach across the table and take her hands into mine, squeezing them gently. I shake my head and smile, telling her I think she knows the answer. She nods and sighs, looking at my ring again. She almost looks relieved. Knowing she won’t be alone forever, that she’ll break away from someone who doesn’t recognize her worth or value her as a partner. Some things never change.
I move the conversation back to college and we talk about her courses. I drop hints of careers she could explore with the degree she’s earning, urging her to keep her options open. Be proud of where she is right now and to not waste a second trying to hurry up. I know she’ll ignore me so I don’t reiterate, because I’ve always been in a rush toward the next thing. That won’t change for at least another decade. She tries to get more future info out of me, but I remind her to just savor the moments of being a young twenty-something — she’ll thank me later. I silently thank myself in this moment and watch her roll her eyes while she laughs (classic us!).
I ask her to tell me what she’s worried about. Then, I catch myself trying to act like the adult in the conversation. Doing what I always do: trying to be a fixer, offering unsolicited advice. Something I know she doesn’t need. I relax my shoulders and listen. Something I know she will appreciate.
When she finishes, I tell her that while is our life is peppered with lows, it has many more highs. When she asks me for advice on how to deal with it, I keep it simple. Take it as it comes. My younger self (classic me!) tries to pry, but I impress my current self by not giving in.
What I don’t tell her: she’ll find a good career and become a home owner within a decade. She’ll lose her father far too soon. She’ll write a novel. She’ll learn how to establish boundaries and keep them strong. She needs to discover and sit with each of these moments, on her own, as they happen. I know it will make us better, to not tell her these things. After all, I’m living proof.
We stand to leave, following each other outside. I give her a hug. She leans into my embrace. We stand in the drizzle, falling upon our shoulders, with the gray sky darkening above us. She thanks me.
I as get into my car, I watch her careen out of the parking lot in her Dodge Neon, knowing she’s on her way to do something fun. Man, I miss those days.
I can’t wait to meet her again, knowing where she’s heading.
This is one of my favorite things I've ever read of yours.