I met my younger self for coffee

The more things change, the more they are the same

In the name of Allah, the Entirely Merciful, the Especially Merciful…

I came across this prompt and I just had to jump in. I do miss it -Writing for just writing sake. Finally, a trend I love and can be a part of…

She shows up wearing a face cap, and I think, typical. The brim almost covers her eyes, like she is trying to hide from the world, but I know better. It is a shield. She always thought eye contact was an invitation, and she never wanted to invite anyone in.

She squints, eyes scanning, weighing me like she does with everyone. Then she exhales sharply. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at me like she is trying to find a flaw in the story I am yet to tell.

I smile. “You won’t believe half of it.”

She leans forward. “Try me.”

She stares at me, eyes wide, arms crossed.

“So, what happened? Did we figure it out?”

I take a slow breath, stirring my tea.

“Some things, yeah.

Others… still a work in progress.”

She snorts.

I smile.

She shakes her head, “So… friends? Do we ever get better at that?”

I exhale slowly. “We still struggle.”

Her face falls. “Oh.”

“But it is different now.”

“How?”

I think for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “We don’t feel used by friends anymore.”

She looks at me, confused. “Then?”

I meet her eyes. “Now, we feel used by Allah.”

She sighs. “That sounds… bad.”

I shake my head. “It is not. Actually…”

I pause, searching for the right way to say it. “It is actually the best thing that ever happened to us.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

I lean forward. “Think about it. Before, we felt like people only kept us around because they needed something. And that hurt, because we wanted to matter. We wanted to be wanted, and loved, because we ARE and not just because we are useful.

“But now?” I smile. “Now, we are comfortable being used by Him. He puts us in places, in people’s lives, for a reason. And when we stop worrying about being wanted and start focusing on being of service, everything feels different. Better. Purposeful”

She shifts in her seat, processing, chewing on that thought.

She is quiet for a long time. Then, softly, “So we stop feeling lonely?”

I exhale. “Not always. But we stop feeling lost.”

She nods slowly. Then, a shy look. “Do we ever get married?”

I laugh. “We do.”

Her eyes go wide. “To who?!”

I shake my head. “You will never guess.”

She leans forward eagerly. “Tell me!”

I smile. “Someone!”

She stares at me. “You are joking.”

“I am not.”

She leans back, stunned. Then, almost whispering, “Is he kind?”

I nod.

“Does he let us read in peace?”

I laugh. “He does.”

She looks relieved. Then, says, “Do we… have kids?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

She studies me. “That is a good thing, right?”

I smile, but my eyes show it. “It is. But it is also hard.”

I hesitate. “We struggled with fertility.”

“What?”

“But we have two children.” Alhamdulillah.

Her expression softens. “Two?”

“Two. And you know what?

She watches me carefully now, quieter. “The anxiety never leaves”

“You will think getting pregnant is the hardest part, then you think it is the pregnancy that is the hardest part, then the birth. Then you will think, okay, once they start sleeping through the night, things will get easier. Then they start moving, and you realize danger is everywhere. Then they start talking, and you realize words are just as dangerous. Then they start learning, and you wonder if you are teaching them enough. If you are too soft, too strict, too present, not present enough.”

She stares at me. “That sounds awful.”

I chuckle. “It is exhausting. But you love them so much, it doesn’t matter.”

You eventually get comfortable with embracing two or more emotions at the same time.

exhausted and grateful

confused and grateful

anxious and grateful…

I didn’t tell her about the physical changes in my body following pregnancy. She doesn't need to know just yet.

She taps her fingers on the table.

Then says, “So, do we homeschool?”

I grin. “We try.”

She groans. “That means we fail, doesn’t it?”

I shake my head. “No, we love teaching. We just struggle with teaching our own kids.”

She throws up her hands. “How does that even make sense?!”

I laugh. “It doesn’t. But it is true.”

“There is something about teaching your own children that makes it ten times harder.”

She shakes her head, muttering, “That is not what I expected.”

I sip my tea. “A lot of things are not what we expected.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice like I am about to tell her a secret. “I still love reading, by the way.”

She grins. “Ha! And Mama still hates that?”

“Oh, she still interrupts me when she can, but she doesn’t seize my books anymore.”

“That IS progress,” she says.

I shake my head. “You won’t believe this one, Mimi became a chef.”

She chokes on her juice box. “No way! All those hours in the kitchen and on her cooking show?”

“All that practice paid off.”

She laughs, and I let her.

I don’t tell her about the days she will spend wondering why she can’t enjoy cooking the way Mimi does, or the way guilt will sometimes creep in.

Some things, she will have to find out on her own.

“So, are we a doctor?” she asks suddenly, her tone hopeful.

“Ah. About that.”

Her face falls.

“I tried, okay? But it turns out we pass out when we see blood. You know, especially inside the body.”

She groans, dramatic as always. “No way.”

But we still did something medical?”

“Yeah, we became a pharmacist.”

She blinks. “What?!.”

“Does Mama like that?”

“I think so.”

She blinks. “That is NOT terrible, I guess.”

“It is not. But guess what?

We also studied Arabic, and Islamic studies. Got a few diplomas, even ijazaat.”

She looks up as she takes a sip…

I nod. “And you know what? We cherish them more than the pharmacy degrees.”

She looks puzzled. “More than all those years of "proud science student”?”

“More!”

She sits back, stunned. I let her sit with that.

Her realisation that the things she thinks matter now might not be the things that define her later.

“The world changed, too,” I continue. “We have social media now and things like Instagram and TikTok.

She frowns. “Those sound weird.”

“They are. And they make everything feel fast and loud. We struggle sometimes. Just trying to keep up.”

She exhales, looking overwhelmed.

I don’t tell her about the constant noise, the endless scrolling, the way the world keeps asking more of you than you have to give.

We sit in silence for a bit. Then she glances at me. “Do we ever learn how to drive?”

I make a face. “We technically learn. But we hate it.”

She groans. “Ugh, I knew it.”

We both laugh. I miss her laughter.

I want to hug her and tell her she will be okay.

She glances down at her drink, playing with the straw, “So, we come to know pain too, huh?”

I swallow. “Yup.”

She doesn’t ask what kind.

Maybe she doesn’t want to know yet.

Maybe she already does.

“And patience?” she asks.

I nod. “Yes. And trust me, that one? It is an unfolding and an undoing every time.”

She rests her chin on her hand, takes a deep breath, looking out the window. “You know,” she says, “I always thought by the time I was you, I would have everything figured out.”

I smile. “Yeah, me too.”

Wait! She says.

Did you get confident enough to raise your hand and speak in class?

“You wouldn't believe it” I said.

“We became a lecturer and that means standing in front of the class explaining stuff.”

“We also got our hair locked and pierced our nose.”

“Wow! That is especially shocking.”

She looks at me then, straight into my eyes like she was determined to find a truth because she didn’t trust my answer to a question she had not yet asked...

“Are we happy?”

I hold her gaze. “Happiness is complicated,” I say.

“Some days, yes. Some days, no. But there is contentment. And there is growth. And there is a kind of peace in knowing you are exactly where Allah wants you to be.”

She thinks about that, then nods slowly. “I guess that is enough.”

I reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It is.”

She sits with that for a while.

Then, finally, she nods. “I think I can live with that.”

I reach for her hand, squeezing gently. “You will.”

I give her a hug and she said, “I am glad you didn’t give up”

…And now I wonder what my older self has to say to me…

I am curious to know what you think…