I Met My Younger Self Today.

But not at the coffee shop.

I met my younger self today. Not at the coffee shop, but in the junior high cafeteria bathroom.

I could hear sniffles coming from the first stall, just barely audible over the roar of a few hundred students eating lunch. I knocked, and waited as the lock slid open. I saw the tear-streaked face of an 11-year-old, with big-rimmed glasses and braces, sitting on the lid of the toilet. She was desperately blotting her blotched face with crumpled toilet paper.

I knelt on the grimy bathroom floor and took her hands in mine. She met my eyes and whispered, “Does the bullying ever stop? Does it ever get easier? Why do they make fun of me for praying before I eat?”

I brush a loose strand of hair from her face, and take a breath. “The bullying lasts the entire school year.” She begins to weep harder. “But you make it through. You stand up for yourself and your faith at the end. And this solidifies your faith and gives you strength to hold firm for future trials. You have no idea how strong you are going to become. God has an incredible plan for you. Just wait.”

She gives me the smallest of smiles through her tears. I hold her hand as we exit the stall together. I hug her before she goes back to the lion’s den. “Don’t stop praying,” I whisper in her ear. “It’s the best weapon you have.”

//

I met my younger self today. Not at the coffee shop, but in the library of Duquesne University.

It was 10pm on a Friday night, the library was quiet. I walked down the rows and eventually saw a girl hunched over a table, books stacked around her. She was pouring over an anatomy textbook, notes scattered across the table.

I quietly sat down in front of her; she was so absorbed in her studies she didn’t notice me for a few minutes. I waited until she committed to memory what she was studying.

She looked up at me in surprise. “How long have you been sitting here?” she asked.

“Long enough to know you’re going to ace your next exam,” I say with a smile.

She smiles back, and tells me she’s in her hardest year of PA school. I nod, and say I know. She tells me she spends all of her waking hours in lecture, cadaver lab, or studying. She averages 2-4 hours of sleep per night.

I can tell she loves it, but that she’s tired. I can also see the uncertainty in her eyes. She’s not sure she’s actually smart enough to make it through the program, despite her 3.9 GPA. She questions if she’s cut out for medicine. She’s terrified she’ll hurt someone.

She asks me if she’ll make it through the program, and if she’ll eventually practice medicine as a physician assistant.

Yes, I tell her. She’ll more than make it through; she will graduate with honors. She’ll care for her patients well and perform life-saving surgeries. She’ll hold the hands of the dying, give terrible diagnoses, and shed tears right along with her patients. She’ll help deliver babies and witness medical miracles that deepen her faith in God.

She asks how long she practices for. I hesitate, and I see the concern in her eyes. “About nine years,” I say. She looks surprised, and asks what happened.

“You fell in love with an Air Force pilot and moved across the country. And then you moved again and again and again; every two years for a decade. You kept working through almost every move, despite the stress of transferring state licenses and starting over each time, and questioning if you were smart enough to do it. But then you had a complicated pregnancy with your first baby during a global pandemic, and everything changed.”

Her eyes widen as she pauses, absorbing everything I said. “So I married my high school sweetheart?”

I pause and tell her no, she didn’t marry him. Her face falls; she cannot comprehend this. I reach for her hand across the pile of textbooks and say, “God had a different plan; a better plan. I know you can’t fathom it now, but you’ll see. Just wait, you won’t believe how God brought it all together for you, for your good.” She gulps, and nods.

She asks another question. “Do I eventually go back to work?”

I smile and tell her, no, she didn’t go back to work. At least not yet, anyway. Another baby and two more cross-country moves came along instead. But in a plot twist no one saw coming, I tell her she laid down her stethoscope and picked up a pen.

Visible shock crosses her face. Dumbfounded, she asks, “Did I become an author? Did I really fulfill that childhood dream?”

Yes, I tell her, she did.

//

I met my younger self today. Not at a coffee shop, but on the floor of her childhood bedroom.

She’s sobbing, her hands cradling her face. Her Bible lays open on the edge of her bed. Crumpled tissues are scattered around her.

I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her.

“I called off my engagement,” she says between sobs.

“I know,” I say, and hold her a little tighter.

“I prayed so hard for us to make it work. I don’t understand why God didn’t answer my prayers.” She pulls back a little bit, her bloodshot eyes meet mine; I can tell she’s been crying for hours. She goes on. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy for calling it off because of our faith differences.” She cries harder. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.”

I grasp her hands in mine. “You don’t understand it now, but one day you will. You get through this by holding onto your faith like it’s your only lifeline. You go to weekly counseling for a year, and not only heal from this, but you also heal other parts of your heart, too. Your true friends show up and answer phone calls and texts at all hours of the day and night. You deepen friendships that last your entire life. Your faith becomes stronger.”

I pause. “And eventually, in God’s timing, and in the most unlikely of ways, you meet your husband. Actually, you’ve technically already met him.”

Her jaw drops. “I’ve already met him?” She cannot fathom this.

I smile. “Yes, you have. You didn’t know it at the time, and you won’t know it for another year. You need to heal. You need to work on yourself and strengthen your faith. There are still big trials ahead, and this is where you sow deep roots that will carry you through. Do the hard work now, and you’ll reap the benefit later.”

She smiles a little, then asks one last question. “What’s he like?”

I can’t help but grin. “He’s quite literally everything you have been praying for. Just wait.”

//

I met my younger self today. Not at the coffee shop, but in her living room, at a remote base in the middle of nowhere.

It’s late at night. She’s curled up on the couch with a glass of wine next to her, her Maltese dog on the other side, who is snoring softly. She’s listening to Christmas music while cross-stitching.

I sit down next to her. She looks up and I see stress and worry reflecting in her eyes back at me, with loneliness, too.

“He’s deployed again,” I state.

She sighs and nods. “It’s his twelfth deployment. I think it’s our eighth or ninth deployment together? I honestly can’t remember how many we’ve gone through at this point.”

I nod. “The deployments are a revolving door.”

She looks at me, slightly amused. “Do I still say that all the time?”

I laugh. “Yes, you do.”

She concentrates on the cross-stitch pattern for a moment, then looks at me. “When does the revolving door stop? Will it ever be less stressful or less lonely?”

“The stress, worry, and loneliness are always there when he’s gone. But yes, the revolving door does stop, at least for a while,” I tell her.

Relief floods her face as she absentmindedly touches the airplane necklace. The one we only wear when he’s deployed, that we never take off until he’s back home.

“Just wait,” I tell her. “The revolving door’s pause is just around the corner.”

//

I met my younger self today. Not at a coffee shop, but in the birthing suite.

I see the panic in her eyes as the nurses are moving quickly around her, as she is wheeled into the hallway, towards the operating room. A quick kiss to her husband, and she’s whisked away.

I jog to catch up and hold her hand as we make our way to the OR.

“I’m scared,” she says. “What if everything goes wrong? What if there’s complications from the c-section? What if I die? What if I never get to see Hannah again? Why did the baby flip to breech during labor? Why on earth is this happening?”

I speak quickly to soothe her fears. “God is with you. Everything is going to be okay. I know you don’t understand it now, but one day you will. You are going to grow and learn so much through this experience. And yes, you will see Hannah again. She cannot wait to meet her baby brother or sister.”

She gulps some air. “I know too much. I used to assist in these surgeries. I know everything that can go wrong.”

I can’t help but smile. “Yes, you do know too much. You also know how much everything almost always goes right. You have the most skilled surgeon in the hospital performing this surgery, and the second best is actually going to be assisting him. It’s no coincidence that God had the two best surgeons in the building this morning.”

She calms a little as I say, “Now, what do we say every time we’re about to deliver a baby?”

She laughs and grins. “Today is a great day for a birthday.”

I let go of her hand as she enters the OR. She calls back to me before the door shuts. “Do we have a boy or another girl?”

I smile. “Just wait.”

//

I look at myself in the mirror today. No makeup, my hair is in a messy bun, and I’m once again in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. I’ve got my 11-month-old son on my hip as our four-year-old daughter calls to me from her room. “Mommy, I have something to show you!”

I make my way towards her bedroom and stifle a laugh. She has every stuffed animal she owns lined up, each with their own book that they’re “reading.”

I corral her and her brother downstairs for some lunch. I toggle between the two of them, occasionally taking a bite of my own lunch. Afterwards, I turn on Daniel Tiger for Hannah while I go put Jack down for his afternoon nap. He finally settles after I sing “Jesus Loves Me” a few times.

I curl up with Hannah on the couch and read my book while she watches her show. After a bit, I clean the house and get dinner ready while she builds towers and castles out of blocks.

My husband calls to tell me his flight is going to be later than expected, but that if we look outside at a certain time, we should see him takeoff.

Around 4pm I hear the familiar sound of a U-28A approaching. “Hannah! Hurry, Daddy’s about to fly over!” I call to her.

She sprints across the house to the front door, flings it open, and rushes to the sidewalk. She looks up to see a U-28A fly directly overhead. She begins to wave frantically. “Hi, Daddy! Hi, Daddy’s friends! Have a good flight!!” She yells. I smile and wave Jack’s hand upward, too.

The usual scene unfolds: dinner with the kids, cleaning up the kitchen while they play, bedtime routines, and then lights out for my littlest loves.

After they’re both tucked in, I straighten the house, basking in its silence. I glance at the clock; my husband won’t land for another few hours. I say a quick prayer for his safety.

As I prep the coffee and pack my daughter’s lunch for the next day, thoughts swirl through my mind.

Will the days ever get easier? How is being a stay-at-home-mom simultaneously mundane but also fulfilling? Does trying to write in the margins actually matter, will it ever make a difference? I wonder when the military will move us again, and where to? Am I losing my skills as a PA because it’s been four years since I’ve practiced medicine? Will I ever use my hard-earned degrees again? Do I even want to? Will I ever get a traditional publishing deal?

I move through the house as the thoughts roll in. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and pause.

In an instant, I see my life flash in my mind’s eye.

The bullying… Late night studying… Sobbing on the floor of my childhood bedroom, my ring finger barren… The life-saving surgeries I performed… Walking down the aisle towards my husband; exchanging rings and vows… Holding my published children’s book in my hands for the very first time…

One more hug and kiss before he walks away, deployment gear on his back; each time holding my breath until his safe return… I’m waving an American flag, eagerly bouncing on my feet, bobbing and weaving to try to catch a glimpse—finally, I see him—he shifts his deployment bag on his shoulder as his eyes search the crowd until they land on mine, and I finally release my breath; he’s home…

I hear the concerning beeps from the fetal monitor, I interpret the sound quickly and know my baby’s heart rate is dropping dangerously low—I tell the midwife, the baby needs to come now—she nods and says to push, and a few minutes later, Hannah is crying in my arms… I’m pinned down on the operating table, holding my husband’s hand. I hear the familiar sounds of surgery; I smell the familiar scents—it’s unnerving to be on this side of it. I hear the doctor tell my husband to announce the gender. He looks around the curtain and from above his mask, I can tell he’s grinning. “It’s a boy!”... I watch Hannah meet her brother Jack, and my heart bursts with joy…

I give myself a small smile in the mirror as a few thoughts that aren’t my own press into my heart.

I was faithful then. I am faithful now. I worked it all for your good then, and I am working it all for your good now.

Just wait.