I met my younger self for coffee at 9am—me, twenty years ago. We both arrived early. She was thin, her eyes red and puffy. I wasn’t as thin; my tired eyes reddened differently.
I ordered a Venti Iced Americano. She picked a Mocha Frappuccino. Then I saw her heartbreak—her first, overwhelming her. She admitted waking with an ache so sharp she feared a heart attack.
She sipped her drink before asking what life was like twenty years later. I paused, noticing her anxious anticipation.
As the conversation lightened, she showed me her Hello Kitty wallet styled after a Chanel design. When her younger sister mocked her, I asked if she felt upset or embarrassed. She explained she chose it because it merged her two favorites: Hello Kitty and the Chanel quilt pattern. Trying to stay cheerful, she admitted that people could be mean about her budget fashion, which confused her. Still, she felt proud to stick to her budget.
I nodded, understanding. Now, I still spend within my budget, buying what I like. People still mock my choices. I explained that others reflect their own insecurities; it’s not about your choices. She looked confused, unsure how the present and past connect.
Our chat grew more candid, as she shared things that didn’t make sense. For example, she wondered why her best friend always claimed her outfits showed too much. I laughed and asked if she even wanted to dress like her friend, then reminded her that those friends were spreading rumors, despite her dislike of boys. Still, she chose to stay friends.
Listening, I held back from telling her she would someday cut off toxic people.
I asked if she remembered the mom with a child with special needs at the food court. Why sit near them amid empty seats? She said she felt compelled to sit close to the mom and smile. She didn’t understand why her smile made the mom cry.
I hope my younger self stays strong when her autistic child is physically abused by the nanny in Hong Kong, and by a male teacher (with BPD) in Japan; when he is bullied at school due to sensory overload, and when an unqualified SEN school and centre decides he is the problem and locks him in the changing room. Then she would understand why the mom cried after she smiled.
I looked at her and saw how alike we remain. The core endures, staying true. In humanistic psychology, growth, self-actualization, choice, and creativity matter (Carl Rogers, 1962).
I gave her a big, long hug. I know she is so proud of her hyper-vigilance, which will be her crippling factor in her late 30s. Her generosity was seen as gullible, and her so-called friends would take advantage of her resources, so she learned to set strict boundaries and keep a low profile. She will be okay.
Jessica Tamaki 