Coffee Date with My 15-Year-Old Self

​We meet at a cozy little café, the kind with soft indie music playing in the background and the scent of freshly ground beans in the air. She orders a café mocha, extra whipped cream, because she thinks bitter coffee is for adults who have it all together. I order a chai latte, warm and spiced, a drink that feels like a hug—something she desperately needs.

She stirs her drink too much, stalling. Then, she spills everything. The weight of her depression, how some days feel impossible, how she wonders if it ever gets better. I reach across the table, squeeze her hand, and promise her—it’s worth the fight. The darkness won’t last forever. One day, she’ll wake up and realize she made it through the worst of it.

She moves on, like she always does, covering pain with another story. This time, about her latest heartbreak. He cheated. Again. She wonders if she’ll ever be loved the way she loves—deeply, fully, without reservation. I smile, because I know what’s coming. You will meet someone who sees your worth, who loves even the broken parts of you. And he will be your greatest teammate.

Then, the black sheep conversation. She’s always been the odd one out—too much, too different, too everything. She doesn’t fit in her small town, doesn’t fit in her own family. I know, I say, but one day, you’ll find your people. The ones who see your goodness, who love you not in spite of who you are but because of it. You’ll build a life surrounded by people who lift you up.

She sighs, stares out the window, and whispers that she just wants to escape. Oh, sweetheart, you will. She will see places beyond the small town that feels like a cage. She will travel, explore, find pieces of herself in places she never imagined.

Then, her face lights up for the first time. WWE. Her love, her escape, the thing that makes her feel something other than sadness. I laugh. You won’t just watch it from your bedroom. You will be there, the whole weekend of WrestleMania. You will feel the energy, the electricity, and you will know that dreams—even the smallest ones—can come true.

She hesitates, then, almost embarrassed. I’ve been thinking about pageants, she says, voice soft, like she’s scared to want something that feels too big for her. I lean in, eyes bright. You won’t just compete. You will be a queen.

She doesn’t believe me yet, but she will. And as we finish our drinks, I see something shift in her eyes. A little more hope, a little less doubt.

I leave the café knowing she’ll make it. Because I did.