I met my younger self for coffee.
She arrived thirty minutes early; I was right on time. She ordered iced tea, and I ordered an iced latte. Her hair was straight and a little messy, and she wore her favorite, well-worn black Converse sneakers. My hair was the same as always, but I'd covered it with my favorite black hijab. I told her that Converse shoes now hurt my feet.
She confessed her fear that she would never fall in love again. I smiled and showed her a Polaroid photo tucked into my phone case—a picture of my husband and our seven-year-old daughter. She looked at it in disbelief, and I knew what she was thinking: How did we end up here?
I told her to be patient, that good things were coming, but all she had to do was wait. She started to cry, and I did too. She asked if I was still blogging. Little did she know, I was still using the same platform, just with a different URL.
She said she felt relieved to see that I had things figured out. To her surprise, I told her that I hadn't. I explained that I was still taking things one step at a time, and she shouldn't worry about having everything figured out at such a young age.
My heart ached. I couldn't believe that girl had finally grown up. I couldn't believe she had turned out okay after enduring so many heartbreaking experiences throughout her childhood.
We hugged, but her embrace lingered longer than mine.
I hope we meet again—perhaps with a better, more put-together version of myself. I didn't tell her that I'm still the same sad girl I was at nineteen.