I met my younger self for coffee…

I met my younger self for coffee today. She arrived early, just like I did.

The little version of me was sitting there, nervous but with a certain spark in her eyes—the kind that hadn’t been dimmed by the years of life that lay ahead. She looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to share the secrets I’d learned in all the time that passed between us. But as I sat down across from her, I realized there was something else I needed to do first. I needed to listen.

We sat in silence for a while, each of us taking in the familiarity of the other. It felt like we were two pieces of the same puzzle, and it struck me that, in some ways, I had been running from her for so long. Maybe because, for a long time, I didn’t know how to love the person she had been, or the person I was becoming.

I could see it now—the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty in her posture, the way she always wanted to be seen but wasn’t sure she deserved to be. How could she know how strong she would become? I thought. How could she understand the power of resilience and the quiet strength in choosing to rise every time life tried to knock her down?

There were years when my dad's emotional abuse made it hard to see any light in the world. He was a shadow that loomed over every decision, every dream. The anger, the blame, the cruel words—those memories shaped me in ways I didn’t know how to untangle. I think that’s what scared me most about my younger self. She had no idea what was coming, how much of a toll it would take on her heart, on her sense of self.

But she didn’t need to know. She didn’t need to know that even though her worth was questioned by someone she loved, that she could still build it back—piece by piece, day by day. She didn't need to know that one day, she would not just survive, but thrive.

I smiled at her, and she smiled back—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. That’s right, I thought. You are more than the pain you’ve endured. You will rise, you will heal, and you will become a woman who knows exactly what it means to fight for herself.

I shared with her how, over the years, I found gratitude in solitude. That for all the moments of loneliness, I had learned to embrace my own company and find peace in it. I told her that there would be times when she’d feel alone, like no one truly understood her—but that in those moments, she’d discover the strength to heal herself. That there would be power in the quiet, in the stillness, in the time spent alone nurturing her own heart.

And then, I told her about our dream of becoming a doctor. She wanted it so badly then, but there were so many doubts. Could I make it? Would I ever be good enough? I could see those questions reflected in her eyes, as clear as day. And I reminded her—reminded us—that we would chase that dream with everything we had, no matter how impossible it seemed. Even when the world tried to tell us no, even when we were exhausted or faced obstacles that felt insurmountable, we wouldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

I talked about the friends I have now—our tribe, our people, the ones who built us up when we were weak. The ones who taught us how to laugh again, how to love again, how to feel safe in the embrace of unconditional support. We didn’t have those kinds of friends back then, and I could see that my younger self longed for them. But I promised her that they would come. The ones who see you, really see you, for exactly who you are, flaws and all. They will find you.

And I said something to her that I’d never told anyone: that I had finally learned how to love myself. That I didn’t need anyone else’s approval to be worthy. That I was enough, just as I was. There was a time when I thought I would never get here—that I’d never be able to look in the mirror and truly believe the woman staring back was deserving of love and respect. But I got there. It took years, and there were a lot of hard lessons along the way, but I did it. We did it.

I could see the emotion swelling in her eyes, and for a moment, I thought we might both cry. But we didn’t. Instead, we laughed—because, in that instant, I realized something profound: she had always been me. The girl who faced the hardest parts of life was the same one who had made it through. She was stronger than she thought, braver than she could ever imagine. And all of it—all of it—had led to this moment, sitting across from the woman I am now.

As our coffee cups emptied, I reached out and touched her hand gently. "You’re going to be okay," I told her. "No matter what happens, you’re going to be okay." And in that moment, I knew we were. I knew that all the pain, the struggles, the moments of doubt—it was all part of a story that was still unfolding. A story of resilience, hope, and an unwavering belief in our ability to heal and grow.

I left the café that day with a heart full of gratitude. Gratitude for the journey, for the lessons learned, for the people who walked with me, and for the woman I’ve become. And most importantly, for the little girl who once believed she wasn’t enough—who, with time, would come to realize she had always been more than enough.

She had always been perfectly enough.