I met with my younger self today in a coffee shop.

I hope we can do it again someday.

I had coffee earlier with my 9-year-old self.

She was dressed in her white and blue Catholic school uniform: a white blouse with a ruffled blue ribbon at the neckline, a blue belt over her blue skirt, white knee socks, and black T-Bar Mary Janes.

As for me, I was wearing my Summer White uniform: white pants, a white belt, a neatly ironed white shirt with my nameplate, and a black shoulder board with a double anchor paraphernalia, with its outer edge embroidered with two yellow stripes. I scuffed my equally white shoes onto the welcome rug and went inside the cozy cafe.

She arrived about 10 minutes before our agreed time, stepping out of her bright yellow school service van. I arrived around the same time, my feet sore from the early commute.

I ordered a Spanish latte — always my go-to because I like it sweet yet a little bitter. She, unfamiliar with the menu, ordered a (scalding) hot chocolate. The moment it arrived, she took a sip, immediately regretted it, and asked the server for a cup of cold water to soothe her tongue. I blew gently over my coffee, took a sip, and let out a satisfied breath.

I asked her how she was doing. She composed herself and smiled. She said she was doing better than most days now. She told me she was still getting used to her new school, even though she’d been there for a year. Her classmates were all kikay and girly, which was very different from what she was used to being around. She told me that she missed early dismissals and street food. She felt like she didn’t belong.

I talked to her about my college degree. At first, I didn’t think it was the right choice for me, being more inclined and interested in scientific and creative subjects but along the way, I met lifelong friends who made me feel at ease in the industry I chose to pursue. I told her that we’re all on a continuous journey of finding our place in the world and that we belong wherever we invest our hearts.

I made her understand that opportunities come at unexpected times, and we should be ready to embrace them, fight for what’s rightfully ours, and never lose sight of our potential. The world is ours to take over. Seize every chance.

She also mentioned feeling something strange for her seatmate — that tingly feeling, like butterflies in her stomach, whenever her seatmate interacted with her. “It’s weird,” she said. “She’s really pretty, though,” she added, almost dreamily. I gently patted down her shirt sleeve, which was riding up, and squeezed her shoulder. I knew she’d realize, in a few years, that what she was feeling wasn’t anything to be scared of. I knew that, in time, she’d struggle to accept that those feelings were valid and that what she felt wasn’t wrong. I smiled at her, knowing what was to come.

When I asked her about our family, she told me that she felt like a useless doll — always being told what to do and controlled. She felt imprisoned. She felt like she was held at gunpoint and she had to walk on eggshells with whatever she did or wherever she went. She was afraid of disappointing our family, of ruining their reputation, and of being judged.

I reassured her that, in a few years, she’d still crave mama’s affection and advice. I told her that mama was just worried — worried that her little girl might lose sight of what’s morally right, that the world was harsh, and she might not be strong enough to handle it.

I told her to hug and kiss mama every time she came home from school, to reassure her that she was safe and alright wherever she went. I reminded her that mama is imperfect and always learning how to be a mother, thinking she might make mistakes that could affect her child. I told her that, when she felt most alone, mama would be the warm embrace she could run to, and no matter what, mama would always welcome her. That home wasn’t just our house in Pasig City, but the warm embrace and comforting scent of mama.

I wiped her tears as I said this, and I wiped my own as well.

I then asked her who her favorite person was. She told me it was our dad. I asked why.

She told me it was because she felt like they were the same person, that she missed him constantly and wanted to be around him all the time. She loved going to the palengke with him because after buying ingredients for her favorite dish, kilawin (made by our dad), he’d buy her hotdog pan de sal from Fema’s, even when she didn’t come with him. She loved going to the nearest supermarket and buying buko juice or cookies-and-cream shakes from Zagu with him just because.

She loved going on trips with him to a big, museum-like building in Ermita, Manila, every weekend to attend “stated meetings,” where she’d meet girls in white robes who wanted to be friends with her. Little did my younger self know, he introduced her to Job’s Daughters International, and since then, that helped her make lifelong friends and sisters.

Though rarely home due to his line of work, he remembered his daughter in the little things. He knew her shirt size and what movies she liked to watch. He always bought her souvenirs and stuffed animals from the countries he’d visited. He showered her with love in his own, unique way.

Even though he didn’t get the son he wanted, to him, she was the best daughter any father could wish for. And for my younger self, despite his imperfections, she loved him all the more.

I smiled at the admiration in her expression. Even now, I still see my father the same way I did back then. I have many favorite people, but my father will always be my most favorite.

My younger self took a sip of the lukewarm chocolate, smiled, and put the cup down. “Have the years been kind to you?” she asked softly, holding my hand.

“Yes and no, my dear. Trust me, it took a lot of resilience to get here,” I replied.

She asked how I made it this far, and how I could have possibly handled everything. “Surely you’ve had tough times?” she asked.

I told her that I had. High school was a mess. It was a time of confusion and trying to figure myself out — academically and emotionally, in terms of gender identity, sexuality, and adolescent insecurities. It was the whole nine yards: the good, the bad, and the ugly. During that time, I learned what love meant through the eyes of an insecure, hormonal, emotional teenage girl. Additionally, I spent almost two years isolated from the world, from the people I loved, and even from myself. It was a journey of losing myself and finding who I truly was. But I’m still not done.

I didn’t go into the specifics of what happened — I didn’t want to spoil her. She’ll have to experience it herself to truly learn from it.

Instead, I told her to hold on. To stay, despite it all. To make wise decisions with the cards laid before her, decisions that could either make or break her, decisions that could define the turning points in her life. I told her to face life, no matter how horrible it seemed, to find the silver lining in the darkest of times. To find something to live for, and live for it. To hope, to yearn, and to wish for a bright future that would fit her and be even more than what she deserves. Because she deserves the world — and more of it.

She cried as I stood up and walked over to her. I hugged her as tightly as I could, as warmly as I needed to feel back then, and as softly as I once was. She hugged me back even tighter, and unshed tears began to form in my eyes. As we let go, I studied her face — youthful, torn yet hopeful, with my mother’s features and my father’s face. I smiled at the harmony of it all — how two opposing forces can unite to create something greater. This little girl would conquer the world, I thought.

I tucked a stray hair behind her ear and hugged her once more.

I hope we can meet again someday. I want to meet her again, in the same spot, at the same time, with the same person —only this time, a bit wiser and, if nothing else, content.