I Met My Younger Self for Coffee

I walk into the café and spot her immediately—my younger self, sitting at a corner table, fidgeting with her straw wrapper, folding it neatly like she always does. She’s early. And so am I. Some things never change.

She looks up as I approach, forcing a small smile, but I see right through it. I know the storm raging inside her.

I sit across from her, watching as she tries to hold back tears. “You look like you have a lot on your mind,” I say gently.

She laughs bitterly. “You have no idea.”

But I do.

I know she’s spent months walking on eggshells, trying to hold onto a marriage that is already gone. I know she’s been crying herself to sleep, confused by the coldness of the man who once held her hand with love. I know she’s exhausted from pretending everything is fine, from making excuses for his distance, from trying to be enough for someone who has already made up his mind.

And I know that soon, she will hear the words that will shatter her: “I don’t feel the same way about you anymore. I think we should get a divorce.”

She won’t be shocked—she has felt it coming—but it will still knock the air from her lungs. She will nod, say “okay,” because that’s what she does—she holds it together. But when the reality sinks in, when the words replay in her head, she will feel like she is drowning.

I reach across the table and take her hand. She looks at me, confused. “What if I told you this wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to you?” I say. “What if I told you that one day, you’d look back and realise this was something you never wanted—but something you desperately needed?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “But it hurts so much. And I don’t know how to walk away.”

I nod. “I know. And you won’t—at least, not yet. You’ll stay a little longer, trying to make sense of it all. You’ll pray, cry, and wonder if leaving means you’ve failed. You’ll feel alone, even when your family is there, reminding you that you deserve better. You’ll wrestle with guilt, fear, and sadness. And then, one day, you’ll finally understand: Allah isn’t closing a door to punish you—He’s opening a new one to save you.”

She looks down, still folding the tiny strip of paper in perfect lines, needing something—anything—to control. “What if people think I gave up too easily? What if they blame me?”

I smile softly. “They will. Some of them, at least. But let me ask you something—who do you care more about pleasing? Them or Allah?”

She lets out a shaky breath. I know how much she hates being misunderstood. I know how much she longs for people to see her heart. But I also know that, deep down, she cares more about what Allah sees than what people assume.

Tears slip down her cheeks, and she nods slowly. She knows the answer.

“You will leave,” I tell her. “Not because you’re weak, but because you’re strong. Not because you stopped loving, but because you started loving yourself. And one day, you’ll sit here, on the other side of the pain, and tell your story—not as a victim, but as someone who survived.”

She wipes her tears and takes a deep breath. “Will I be okay?”

I squeeze her hand. “You won’t just be okay—you’ll be happier than you ever thought possible. You’ll heal. You’ll find peace. And most importantly, you’ll find a love that never leaves you—your love for Allah.”

She nods again, a little more certain this time. The weight on her shoulders is still there, but maybe—just maybe—it feels a little lighter.

I smile as I stand up to leave. “One more thing,” I say, looking back at her. “You have no idea how strong you are yet. But you’ll see. I promise.”

And with that, I walk away, leaving her to finish her iced coffee, unaware that soon, she’ll become the woman sitting on the other side of the table. The one who now holds space for others, who helps them find their way back to themselves. The one who knows pain but has transformed it into purpose. The one who once prayed for a way out and now teaches others how to turn to Allah the way she once did.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she is going to be okay. More than okay. She is going to thrive.