I met my younger self for coffee…

This is a piece of writing I’ve been working on for quite some time. To be honest, this was a difficult one to write, as it made me reflect on aspects of my younger self that I still long to reconnect with. The version of me in this piece existed in a time when the possibilities felt endless—when I could become anything, and I embraced parts of myself that I now wish I had never let go of.

The innocence that once defined me, along with the unwavering hope I carried, was something to admire. Looking back over the past six years, I see a trail of missteps, and I struggle with the thought that my younger self deserved to look forward with pride and anticipation—yet, in truth, I don’t believe I have fulfilled that expectation. At least not fully.

There are definitely new parts of me I am very proud of that have formed from the ebb and flow of the past 6 years. But there are parts of me that have hardened. Not opened up, like I’d hoped they would.

I haven’t yet reached my fullest potential and I know this. Is that the goal of this type of introspection? To remind ourselves of how far we’ve come? Or how much higher we still have to climb?

My younger self didn’t give a shit about comparison. She didn’t even bat an eye at criticism.

I’d say she cared about them a little. But wasn’t very good at hiding it when they reared their ugly head.

I’ve now mastered the art of pretending to be okay.

Now both of those inevitable feelings just sting like salt in the wound of self-expectation.

But, no worries.

I hope someone else feels this way, if anything.

I met my younger self for coffee…

She strutted in with more self-confidence than I remember her having. I walked in with a gentle smile on my face.

She was wearing a colorful sweater and dangly bracelets, with flustered cheeks and a couple swipes of mascara. I wore my favorite pair of loose jeans with a puffer coat, not a hint of makeup on my face.

She told me she was in awe of this city, and that the neighborhood we were in was so “bougie”. I thanked her, as I told her we live here now and have for almost 4 years.

She covered her hands with her mouth, in disbelief. I told her there’s so much I had to catch her up on.

We sat down after ordering our drinks. An iced vanilla latte for her, and a hot one for me. It was evident how comforting the simple idea of sipping coffee with an old friend felt to her, as it has always felt for me.

“How are we?”, she asked.

“Well…” I started.

It had been 6 years since we had spoken. How do I even begin to tell her?

“Maybe it would be easier if I asked you first.”

“Don’t you already know?”, she asked.

I did, but I wanted to hear it from her.

“I remember it, but not in the same way you may be able to describe it to me.”

She went on to tell me how much had changed since high school. How she had made a whole new group of friends in her dorm, that go out and drink way more than she’s comfortable with but she does it anyway. How she missed him more than she cared to admit. How she loves her new sorority. She’s making so many new friends.

How she thinks she wants to be a writer, but also a singer, an actor, and a leader. How she wants to travel. How she wants to touch people with her words and her thoughts. How she so desperately wants to be loved, but doesn’t know how to make people appreciate her for who she is.

It feels so right to grow and change at the rate that everyone thinks she should.

I listened, in a state of bliss, because not much has changed.

“What do we end up doing?”

I tell her that we found a career that has challenged us in many ways, but that may not be the end all be all. It’s a career that grows as we do, allowing us to spend time cultivating a life we can be proud of.

One that allows us to travel, allows us to have hobbies, and teaches us a whole lot about managing money that’s for sure.

She can tell I have a bit of darkness behind my eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, you know.”

I nod, knowingly.

“How’s home? How is everyone?”

I tell her that everyone’s wonderful. Mom and dad are our biggest cheerleaders. We have a whole new appreciation for their relationship, after the many mishaps that we experienced in our own.

I tell her to squeeze Mickey tight the next time she sees him. He lives the longest and happiest life. But not the kind that lasts forever.

“Remind your sister that you love her. Everyday.” She sets an alarm in her phone to call her.

Some things never change.

“Do we get back together? With… you know…”

I hesitate to tell her all of the heartbreak that she will experience in the next few years that lead her to the safest pair of arms she’s ever been in.

“I can’t spoil that part of the story, now can I?

I want to tell her how much she’d learn about love in the near future. How tragically beautiful that part of her life would end up being. I wanted to hug her in spite of it.

“I wish I could stay, but…”

“I get it,” I say, knowing we used to aggressively time block our days in an attempt to take every opportunity to expand our resume. Even if we sacrifice our well-being for it. She’s a ‘yes’ woman.

I want to tell her that we should set aside more time for ourselves to just be, but I hold my tongue. She’ll burnout soon enough. And then it’ll make sense to her.

I give her the biggest and warmest hug and kiss her on the forehead.

We lock eyes, and I tell her I missed her.

She looks at me funny, like there was something else she wanted to say.

I walk out the door without a second look, before I try to hold her hand through it all.

The truth is, I was scared I’d never want to leave.

Because I honestly wanted to crawl back into my own skin. I still envy her ability to lose herself in the child-like wonder that permeated our upbringing. Singing showtunes for hours without self-doubt, writing stories without worrying if they were ‘good’, being able to access the capacity for hope like the snap of a finger. She dreamed without hesitation, and maybe I should have followed some of those dreams instead of trading them for practicality.

The scary thing about facing your younger self, is that you know they’d be disappointed if they knew the full truth. Granted, on the surface, my younger self would be elated to know that we had moved to Chicago with our best friend, had gotten a solid corporate job, had made new friends, traveled all around the world, and have space and time to create.

But, would she like what runs through my mind each day? Probably not.

My younger self didn’t understand the world as I do now, didn’t realize you couldn’t just hold it in your hand. Her world was small, and she believed kindness and authenticity were all it took to succeed.  

In many ways, she was right.

But the truth is messier.

With success came more failure. With faith, more doubt. Unanswered calls, retreats into comfort, realizations that came too late. More ‘what ifs’ than I ever imagined. 

How do I tell her that the world gets crueler, but we get stronger?

Maybe it’s better this way. Wouldn’t want to spoil it for her, after all.

Talk soon,

Hannah  

**this prompt was originally created by Jennae Cecelia, a wonderful poet. Follow her on Instagram @jennaececelia :)

Thank you Jennae. <3 Your writing inspires millions of people.