coffee with my younger self

Today I met my younger self for coffee.

She arrived precisely on time—

t-shirt, jeans, cropped hair with bangs.

I was fifteen minutes early,

dress flowing, long hair, bangs remaining

like a bridge between who we were and who we've become.

She ordered decaf latte, skimmed milk.

I ordered matcha, skimmed milk.

Some habits refuse to evolve.

Her eyes sparkled with urgent questions,

mostly about med school dreams.

Yes, I told her, we made it.

But how could I explain

that ambition's texture changes,

that success tastes different now?

How do I tell her that tears come easier now,

that sensitivity isn't weakness

but wisdom wrapped in vulnerability?

She asked about her best friend—

our best friend—

and I had to tell her about manipulation,

about freedom found in letting go.

Her fury was familiar,

like looking in a mirror of remembered pain.

Another heartbreak waited in high school,

another "best friend" who would teach us

about the cost of trust.

But I only whispered:

"Guard your heart, dear one.

Guard it well."

I told her to ease up on Dad,

but keep those boundaries strong—

a delicate balance she'd learn to dance.

She noticed my untouched latte,

concern in her eyes.

I could only smile, hesitant,

offering gentle warnings about self-care

and nourishment.

We parted ways,

both carrying extra weight:

she with glimpses of future storms,

I with memories of past innocence.

But then—

a thought of my much younger self,

that tiny warrior who would've run

straight into my arms,

no questions asked,

just pure love and acceptance.

And somehow,

that thought

was enough.