Tea with My Younger Self

We meet in a quiet tea shop with mismatched chairs—one upholstered in deep green velvet, another painted a defiant shade of blue

I will have tea with my younger self because that’s one thing we’ve consistently loved. Only that now, we love so many lovely teas; mint, chamomile, clove, hibiscus, arabian tea, etc. We’ll have mint tea because the younger me would love mint tea.

We meet in a quiet tea shop with mismatched chairs—one upholstered in deep green velvet, another painted a defiant shade of blue, as though it had once belonged to someone who refused to let their furniture be ordinary. The air smells of freshly brewed mint, warm and familiar.

We are ten minutes late. It is the kind of lateness that is not quite rudeness, only inevitability. We had meant to be on time—of course, we had—but something came up, as it always does. We always try our best to leave earlier but somehow beyond our comprehension or control, we arrive late as usual.

At least thankfully we work remotely now so we are always early to virtual meetings.

Her eyes searching, curious but wary. I recognize the look: a mix of nervousness and the quiet boldness she does not yet know is hers.

‘Sorry,’ she says, small-voiced, and I smile. It used to be a habit to apologize for nothing.

We both choose to sit by the window, near the potted plant that leans towards the light. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, her outfit a deliberate mismatch of colors that do not quite belong but still somehow make sense. She’s looking at me searching before she finally speaks.

‘So we did not die at twenty-five as the ridiculous Ilorin prophet prophesied?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘I knew he was fake but couldn’t tell mom,’ she says.

There is a pause before she leans in, her voice dropping to something between a whisper and a demand.

‘Did we give birth to twin boys? Or at least even marry a doctor as they prophesied?’ she asks again.

I laugh, full and unrestrained. ‘No twins. And we dated a doctor once, but he was not special. We are just...living now. We have friends who love us. Friends who wish us well, who cry with us, who give us space to be ourselves.’ My voice wavers slightly. ‘We have good friends.’

‘So our resistance is worth it right?’

I exhale, knowing all the versions of her who asked that same question, late at night, when the road felt too steep. I think about the stories she will write, the lives she will impact, and the resilience she carved out of pain.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A thousand times, yes.’

‘Do you wish you knew what you now know earlier?’ she asks again.

‘No, that’s too cliché.’

That feels too dismissive of the vibrant and chaotic beauty of being younger so instead, I'd say a simple, ‘Thank you.’

Thank you for the audacity to dream, even when the world whispered doubts. Thank you for the fierce loyalty to your passions, and the stubborn refusal to compromise your inner voice. Thank you for the tears you cried and still cry in private, the fears you wrestled with in the dark, because those moments, though painful, were the crucibles forging your resilience. Now although people still hurt you, your bounce back is always special.

I'd tell her about the work we've done together – the projects we have helped starting brands work on from late nights and sheer will, the relationships nurtured with tenderness and honesty. How we’ve ghostwritten over 30+ books for people across various walks of life.

How our quiet acts of kindness rippled outwards, creating their small waves of change for us. I'd share the satisfaction of finally understanding that success isn't a destination but a journey, a continuous unfolding of potential.

I'd confess that the path will never be smooth. There are detours, dead ends, and moments where the weight of the world feels crushing. I'd tell her about the times I faltered, the mistakes I made, and the lessons learned through hard-won experience. But I'd emphasize that these setbacks weren't failures, but rather invaluable teachers, shaping our perspective and deepening our empathy.

I'd explain that it's okay to not have all the answers, to stumble and fall, to feel overwhelmed and uncertain. I'd remind her that she is worthy of love and belonging, exactly as she is, imperfections and all. That self-acceptance is not a destination either, but a practice, a gentle tending to the garden of her soul.

I'd share the joy of discovering the beauty in the mundane, the quiet magic of a sunrise, mint tea, AC, cold water, fried potatoes, and the comforting warmth of a shared laugh, the profound connection found in genuine vulnerability.

I'd emphasize the importance of slowing down, savoring the present moment, and finding joy in the simple things.

And finally, I'd tell her that she will continue to grow, to evolve, to become the incredible person she is destined to be.

She will learn the art of telling not just her own truth, but the truths of others, lifting voices that have been left in the margins. I tell her she will fight for her dreams, and although some doors will slam in her face—she will build new ones.

That she will step into rooms where people feel unseen, and they will know, in an instant, that she truly sees them.

I tell her that faith will carry her when nothing else does. I tell her that love—real love—will come, not because she finally earns it, but because she has always been worthy of it.

I reach for her hand across the table. It’s shaking, she’s crying but she lets me hold it. Then, I'd offer a gentle smile, a knowing nod, because ultimately, the most profound thing I could offer my younger self is the reassurance that she is loved, she is capable, and she is enough. And that, no matter what, she will be okay.

‘You are more than enough,’ I whisper. ‘You always have been.’

She nods, eyes glistening, and I know she believes me—at least a little.

I rise, squeezing her hand once more before I turn to leave. But just as I reach the door, I hear her voice—small but steady.

‘Thank you for never giving up on me. You keep pushing, thank you!’

I smile and say, ‘We keep pushing, see you next time.’

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Thanks for reading, I hope you’re well.