First Post. Suicide. Trigger Warning.

My intentions are simple — to be raw. To be unapologetically myself.

What brought me back to sanity, or maybe even the insanity of writing again — as someone who once dreamed of being a writer and storyteller, maybe as a form of art or escapism — was a TikTok challenge earlier this year, 2025.

The prompt was: “I met up with my younger self for coffee…” and you just write something short about what that would look like for you.

When I decided to participate, it came after a lot of reflection and quiet thought. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about — but I also knew it would come with a trigger warning.

My TikTok isn’t popular (thank God). It’s mostly just for my close friends, locals, and the occasional person who creeps to see what I’m up to. So, was I brave enough to share something so raw and intimate, so publicly?

The decision was simple: who fcking cares.*

Here it is:

I met the younger version of myself for a coffee at our hometown cafe. She was ten minutes late, and I was two minutes early—some things never change.

I had already ordered for us both: lemonade, a pastry, and a baked good, the same way we always did when our dad would take us to cafés as a little girl. The taste of nostalgia sat between us before we even exchanged words.

She was brimming with excitement, eyes wide with curiosity. I was just as eager, though time had softened the way I showed it.

"So... did you figure it out?

Lawyer, writer, or nurse practitioner?" she asked, leaning forward, full of wonder.

I smiled. "Our path shifted.

We're becoming a flight nurse, then a CRNA."

Her face lit up. "So, like... the Power Ranger of nurses?"

I laughed, admiring the wit we never outgrew.

"Yeah, something like that."

She took a sip of lemonade, then asked,

"What about the ten kids?"

I shook my head, amused.

"Honey, we haven't even gotten married yet."

She raised a brow. "Still don't believe in relationships?"

I smirked. "Let's just say... we've learned Allah knows best, literally"

She nodded, satisfied, then grew serious. "So we're practicing Islam more?"

A warmth spread through me. "We second-guess being immodest now. We love reading the Quran, and speaking about it. Faith feels like home."

She smiled, that knowing, hopeful smile I used to wear so often.

Before we parted, I looked into her eyes-my eyes, just a little brighter, a little less weathered by time-and said,

"We found our people.

We’ve been there for every moment that matters. Our parents are still here, still being the best. You watched your siblings all grow up. Life is joyful, and we're living it by making it feel lighter for those around us. We've made beauty out of the presence."

She inhaled sharply, like she wanted to memorize the moment, then whispered,

"I'm happy that I never ended our story too early."

And as she walked out, I realized—I was always proud of her, too.

And then I remembered — I love to write just as much as I love to talk.

Later this year, I came across Substack. One random night, close to midnight, I texted my book-lover girlfriends:

“I decided since I always wanted to be a writer, imma post on Substack & live out that fantasy.”

Their reactions and support were all I needed to continue this journey.

Thank you, S, A, and O.