I Met My Younger Self For Coffee...
What I would say at 30 to my 20 year old self if we met
Note: this format of writing is based on a poem by author Jennae Cecelia. I am not the first or last to take it as inspiration. But it was a helpful tool to write and reflect on the last decade of my life.
I met my 20-year-old self for coffee today.
She turned up with a backpack, loaded down with what she needed for the day. She lives a life where she rushes from university lectures to bible studies to her nannying job.
I turned up with a crossbody bag of the bare essentials. I left the backpack at childcare drop off with the toddler. But when I looked for my sunglasses, I still found a pair of tiny socks and some stickers.
She caught two buses to be here. I walked. She didn’t have a choice: she doesn’t yet have her driver’s license or a car. I have both: but living in a walkable neighbourhood and building exercise into my routines is good for my mental health.
I arrived early, and so she did. But she is watching the clock. I have nowhere to rush to after our coffee date, just various tasks to work through at my own pace.
She was reading the latest historical fiction book from the library while she waited. We still read historical fiction, and we still love the library. Some things don’t change.
She asks about teaching, and if we ever finish our degree.
You’ll love it I say. You’re never bored, and you learn so much. You’ll write curriculum and help children and make friends.
I don’t tell her that teaching through a pandemic is one of the hardest things she does.
She doesn’t order a coffee. She is saving every dollar she makes to get her through her teaching internship, where she will work full time for three months with no pay.
I order a coffee, because my day started early. My bank account is not overflowing, but I’ve learnt to treat money as tool for joy. I order her a coffee too, because generosity also brings me joy.
I know that on the laptop crammed into her bag there are notes and ideas and half formed blog posts about all the thoughts and feelings she has. She doesn’t know that I get to write these things out loud these days.
Not only do I share my words, sometimes I even get paid to share them.
But the girl in front of me can’t imagine not teaching forever or ever calling herself a writer. So, I hide my doubts about whether we’ll return to the classroom, even once the toddler starts school.
Her brave face and upbeat tone cover the cracks in her heart, still healing after disappointment. I hold her hand gently and tell her it will be okay. That the best is yet to come, and it’s better than we dreamt.
I tell her that the things that scare her now don’t keep being scary forever. That there are new fears ahead, but you learn how to do it scared, and do it anyway. That the man you marry is your best friend and the best dad you could have picked for your toddler, and all the other cliches she can think of. That you have learnt to thank God for the good gifts you know come from him, even when you don’t understand why other gifts were taken away.
There’s more, so much more, you could share, but don’t. Because some things can only be learnt by the living.