I Met My Younger Self For Coffee
I hosted my third annual cupcakes and champagne birthday party at the house, an event that started as a fun idea and has now become a tradition. I attempted to kick everyone out by 9 PM—but if we're being honest, I lost track of time enjoying some of my favorite people all together in my house.
Luckily, Tasha took a shower and people got the hint to leave.
This year's lineup:
Butter cake with chai frosting
Chocolate cake with salted caramel frosting
Red velvet with cream cheese frosting
An over the top trivia game about myself
Gluten-free, dairy-free, and nut-free, so the allergy babes didn't have to ask. (Labels on the bookshelf, because I had no interest in answering the same question 40 times.)
The day before, I ran around doing the things that make me feel good—car wash, nail appointment, spray tan (lol), and then making three types of cupcakes and frosting. I had already deep-cleaned the house last week, even washing the walls and floorboards because, naturally, I was thinking about how much there was to get done.
Then LOL at 8 PM on Friday night I learned my oven was not preheating.
So I packed up and headed to a friends house to shuffle baking tins in and out 37 times.
I wore a red silk slip dress, lashes, and fuzzy slippers. My bathtub was full of ice and bottles of Kirkland Prosecco. There was sparkling lemonade and decaf coffee mocktails. After everyone left I went to get some tacos and slept for 10 hours—like I had just turned in a thesis for review.
It was perfect.
On my actual birthday, I did all the things I love, including a quiet gratitude reflection for this life—this life—that I get to live.
And at some point, I imagined what it would be like to meet my younger self for coffee.
It would have never been her idea. She was busy traveling the world, trying to fit 40-50 hour work weeks into 3-4 days, juggling friendships, an aggressive workout routine, a volunteer fundraiser, in addition to her mental health?
She would have CC'd our mentor in the introduction email, a silent signal that this was a task that was assigned to her. I thought about what I would tell her, how I would explain where we've been, how to be honest and authentic without giving away any details, and how—years ago—he told us he had a dream: I worked in a little office, blocks from the water in downtown Seattle, where we had our own marketing agency.
I Met My Younger Self For Coffee
She showed up three minutes late after waiting 8 minutes in the parking lot so she didn't have to walk in first and guess what I looked like. She was wearing an oversized blazer—her way of showing intention while quietly resisting the expectation that business attire equals respect.
She had already picked the place, a diner in my neighborhood she'd been meaning to try. She arrived prepared: laptop and notebook in tow, tucked inside a multipurpose backpack—gym, bike commute, work, travel. She had a list of questions, handwritten in her not-quite cursive, all lowercase.
Some of the questions were delightfully irrelevant.
"Where in Seattle did we buy a house?"
We don't live in Seattle.
"What kind of dog(s) do we have?"
We love our time and location freedom too much. Our parents got another golden retriever, though. She's perfect.
“What did you do to your eyebrows?”
I got them tattooed. Start listening to Kailey more when it comes to skin and cosmetics.
"Did we ever hit a 225 power clean?"
Have you been lifting upper body at all since college?
“Well, what have we accomplished”
What I can tell you is, you have a career that challenges you and you love it. You live in a home that is better than you ever imagined, and your friend groups and family ties are stronger than ever. Your body image and relationship to food have improved immensely. Which is a huge win. And you play a lot of volleyball over the next several years (hopefully forever). Remember Chloe? Ya'll still play together.
(I can't tell her that at age 26 we FINALLY get to play on the same team as our older sister. Because she would realize that we have lived in Portland.)
"Are we a big-time designer?"
Yes and no. Right now, I feel more like a writer and strategist than a designer.
"We're a writer?"
Professional copywriter and web designer.
"How hot is our boyfriend?"(What I wanted to say was: You're gonna hate this, but men are not integral in your life. You didn't get married on the timeline that you thought you would. You moved to a new state and started a business instead.)
You—after some really hard work, with a lot of guidance, and through some life-altering events—put all your eggs in your own basket. You decided you would figure our your career and dream life first. And you did.
"I thought we would be like a COO or CMO in Seattle?"
Different version of the same thing. But our mentor is going to tell you soon that he had a dream. In it, you had a little office on the water in downtown Seattle, running a marketing agency. He was right about the business part. The location doesn't matter, Seattle was his happy place.
We'll never know if he actually dreamt it or if he just said it so you could start to see it unfold.
But 3,485,734 lessons and 10,000 hours later, here we are.
"Wow. Well, what can you tell me to do next?"
Keep sharpening all your skills; being a wildly talented generalist will absolutely pay off. Slow down. Floss more, and wear your damn retainer. Remain curious. Listen to your intuition. Put more money in your Roth IRA.
Embrace your relationships because they are truly the heartbeat of our lives.
Only keep people around that make you feel safe and seen.
Keep listening to memoirs written and read by women.
Trust that in every timeline, every possible outcome, you will be happy, loved, and successful.
Also, we're a little allergic to sesame oil. And skip that psychic in Scottsdale.
Before concluding our meeting, she read me the majority of my answers back (from notes and memory). We got tangled into a few seemingly random tangents, and brilliantly wove them back to the original topic. I signal the waitress for the check.
She doesn't even flinch for her wallet. She thanks me and asks,
“Sooo, are we rich yet?” She asks with a mischievous smile.
Now, that would be reckless of me to tell you.
Worry about your Roth IRA, don't worry about me.
I sign the bill, she clocks that my signature hasn't changed (neither the handwriting or last name). She caught what she thinks is a clue. She packs her backpack, I see a mason jar of greek yogurt and peanut butter, she must be going back to work after this.
We stand, getting ready to walk out together.
"Are you still a hugger?”
Only with people I like.
She starts braiding her hair, prepping to put on a helmet and cycle off.