I met my younger self for coffee

This blog is inspired by the viral poem by Jennae Cecelia. All over the internet, women have been reflecting on their journeys and after shedding my share of tears over other people’s pretty words I decided it was my turn.

I met my younger self for coffee today.

I wait for her at the door, because I know she hates both arriving first and scanning a busy room to find her people. I arrive early to compensate, to make sure she will be okay.

I pay for her drink: a hot chocolate topped with marshmallows but not cream. Mine is just a tea, plain and simple.

She is wearing a dress and converse. It makes me smile that we haven’t changed all that much. I am wearing a skirt with bright patterned Vans.

I ask her what she was doing before we met today; she is not good at asking questions to get a conversation going, so I spend some extra energy. She was writing a practice history essay – avoiding reading more Pagnol by revisiting historiography quotes and working on causes and consequences until she could recite it in her sleep. She manages to ask me what I was doing, and I hesitate. Eventually I tell her the truth, that I was resting because my iron count is on the floor, I was exhausted and I needed to do nothing. She does not quite understand, and that’s okay.

I notice her tapping the table beside her cup as I sip my tea. It isn’t impatience, and she’d be appalled if anyone thought so. She is anxious because the coffee shop is busy, although she couldn’t identify this if I asked her. She is stimming, but she won’t know for years, the reason why. I won’t tell her. She wouldn’t know what to do with that information, I doubt she’d even believe me.

I look at her with fondness and love. She is trying so, so hard but she can’t see how hard she is pushing herself. Trying to keep up, trying to be like everyone else, trying to be normal.

To my surprise, she asks me if I am a teacher, if I made it. She is scared that she is not good enough, that someone will uncover that she’s not the right kind of person to teach. I smile and take her hands. I tell her that she will make it, that I made it and the hard work paid off.

I will not tell her that in the end, the hard work won’t be enough and and she will become the statistic that horrified her, that half of all new teachers will leave the profession within five years of qualifying.

She does not need to hear that. She needs me to hug her and I do, to tell her that the panic will subside and one day she will live independently doing a job she didn’t even know existed. Her name will be in print, she will go to London at the weekends and she will have friends with home she feels like she belongs, despite what someone will tell her to the contrary.

Before we part, I tell her that I’m proud of her. She looks confused, not sure whether to be please. She does not know what to say, so says nothing. I smile. This is our normal, and she doesn’t feel nearly often enough like that’s okay.

I met my younger self for coffee today (neither of us drank coffee but that’s beside the point.) I think it was strangely affirming for both of us.