I met my younger self for coffee today: and told her the life she dreamed of was real

Have you seen those “I met my younger self for coffee” posts floating around? I’ve always enjoyed reading them, and honestly, I started writing my own just for kicks – no intention of sharing it. But somehow, it turned into something a lot bigger than I expected and went far beyond the short Instagram snippets I’d seen before. It became a mini-essay, to be fair. So, without further ado, here’s a slightly longer (and probably more honest) version of that conversation.

I met my younger self for coffee today. She walked into the cozy café with nervous energy and sat by the bookshelf like it was the safest place in the world. Her eyes flicked around the room, searching for something familiar. I smiled, already feeling protective of her. She talked quickly – too quickly – trying to fill the space before the silence asked anything too real. I matched her speed. Some habits don’t go away.

She didn’t ask about the future. She was too scared to know. She’s always been that way – curious, but terrified that too much knowledge might jinx it all. But I knew what she really wanted to ask. I could feel it humming beneath her skin.

She wanted to know if she made it.

Not “made it” like career or success or any of the boxes people measure life by. No, she wanted to know if she ever broke free. If she ever found the kind of life she’d spent her childhood dreaming about while staring out of classroom windows.

Freedom was her obsession. She couldn’t name it back then, not really. She just knew she didn’t want what everyone else seemed to want. She hated the idea of beige office buildings, of packed lunches and peak hour traffic, of a life dictated by a calendar someone else made. Sundays felt heavy, even when she had nothing to dread. It wasn’t that school was hard – she was smart, capable – but everything felt small. Like she was always playing a supporting role in someone else’s story.

And oh, how she ached to run.

I told her I remembered that ache. The restlessness. The way coming back from a camping holiday felt like slipping into a grey version of the world. The way the sea seemed to stretch something open in her – like she was made of saltwater and wildness and couldn’t survive being boxed in.

“You weren’t wrong,” I told her. “You weren’t broken for feeling that way. You were just awake.”

She asked if she still loved the sea. I laughed. “More than ever. You live for it. It resets you. You’ve built a life that bends toward it, not away. You still feel weird without it.”

Her eyes watered. Not out of sadness, but something softer. Something like hope. She asked if I was happy. I told her yes, and no, and yes again.

I told her I did it. That I built a life that doesn’t follow the rules. That I travel. That I take my family with me. That we’ve seen coastlines and mountaintops, slept in campervans and crammed into little beds all together. That my little boy is growing up knowing that the world is big and beautiful and full of possibility, and that routine is optional.

I told her that some days, I still don’t know what I’m doing. That there are moments of doubt, of chaos, of longing for security. But even in those moments, I’m free. And freedom, for people like us, is the only thing that ever felt like home.

She leaned in then, whispering like it was sacred: “Was it worth it?”

I didn’t pause.

“Yes,” I said. “So worth it. Even if this is only a golden season. Even if we end up somewhere more still one day. We chose adventure. We chose each other. We chose wonder.”

She grinned. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I always knew.”

And then, in a moment so gently heartbreaking I could hardly breathe, she asked what I’d do differently.

I told her: “Go faster. Take the leap sooner. Don’t wait for a sign. Don’t date that guy.”

We both laughed.

And then I got serious, because I knew she needed this part the most.

“Don’t try to be anyone but you. You’ll spend years thinking you’re too much, or not enough. You’ll twist yourself into shapes to make others comfortable. You’ll think you have to earn joy, or prove your worth, or shrink to be loved. Please, just don’t. You were made to be exactly who you are. That weirdness that you keep trying to hide becomes your superpower.”

She nodded. But I could still see the doubt in her.

So I said, “You’re beautiful. You don’t see it yet, but you are. And one day you’ll look at old photos and wish you looked like that again. But more than that – you’ll start feeling beautiful. You’ll take up space. You’ll stop being the side character and step into the spotlight. And when you do, you’ll light up the room.”

She sat with that. I think she believed me. Maybe not fully, but enough.

When we stood to leave, she hugged me too tightly, like she didn’t want to go back. But she had to. She had things to learn. So squeezing her hand gently, I said:

“You don’t have to understand it all right now. Just know this: the life you want is real. It’s messy and brave and wild… and it’s yours. Go and live it.”

And just like that, she left. Lighter. Braver. A little more certain.

And I sat back down, coffee cold, heart full.

Because sometimes, the best way to move forward… is to remind yourself of how far you’ve already come.

Do you ever wonder what you would say to your younger self? I’d love to hear your thoughts – drop me a comment below.