I was supposed to meet my younger self for coffee, but I ghosted her instead.

The viral poem, why I couldn't write my own version, and the healing words that eventually came

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Back in January, a poet I’ve been following on Instagram (

Jennae Cecelia

) shared a poem from her upcoming book, Deep In My Feels. The poem is about meeting her younger self for coffee, and it struck a chord with many people (including me)—so much so that it went viral. My Instagram feed blew up with creatives and women writing their own versions of Jennae’s poem. Jennae even found herself being interviewed by the media about this powerful viral poem.

jennaececelia

A post shared by @jennaececelia

I found Jennae’s original poem and the poems it inspired to be beautiful, brilliant, moving, and healing. I clicked save on her Instagram reel because I wanted to come back to it later when I was ready to write my own version. I typically avoid trends and things that go viral, like the plague, but give me a healing writing prompt to try, and I’m in.

When I finally had a free afternoon, I cozied up at my desk with a cup of homebrewed coffee, ready to meet my inner child/younger self, and opened my notebook of jottings to take notes. I reread Jennae’s poem to refresh my memory and picked up my pen to write the first line—and I completely stalled. My hand froze, and a panic all too familiar to my bones set in. I put down my pen, closed my notebook, and walked away.

Before we could even meet, I ghosted my younger self.

I was caught off guard by my body’s reaction. Expletives may have gone off in my head. Thoughts spiraled.

I can’t do this. I can’t write this.

Which younger version of myself am I even meeting? My mind flashed back through my mental photo album of me at various ages. 15 year old me? 25 year old me? Which younger version of myself is asking me to meet her? What do I even tell my younger self? I’m so scared for her. I don’t want to scare her. I can’t say those things to her. Do I even have anything to offer her? How do I not have anything to offer her? How old am I acting right now? Am I even any different than any younger version of myself? Maybe after all these years, I still don’t know myself.

I can’t write this poem.

More expletives followed. My heart raced. My face grew hot. Tears ready to burst.

Wow, this is an unexpectedly big reaction. What is happening? I should be able to write this poem. I’ve spent too many years in therapy and healing not to write this poem. Writing this poem should be easy—healing—not hard and incite a panic attack. What is wrong with me?

I journaled about not being able to write my own version of Jennae’s poem. I let the idea go and gave myself permission not to write it. I talked to a friend about it. I walked. I breathed. I stretched. I cried a little. I thought about how I probably needed to talk to my therapist about it during our next session.

A few days later, the prompt still pulled at me while enjoying a ube latte at one of my favorite local coffee shops. I sat near the window and journaled. And suddenly, the poem (more lengthy prose than a poem) flowed onto the page.

Here’s the full, unedited version that followed:

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I met my younger self for coffee at 9:00 am.

She was 5 minutes early.

I was right on time.

I wore my short dark hair streaked with silver in a low pony.

She had her long dark hair slicked back into a bun.

I wore a sweatshirt, high-rise jeans, and my Birkenstocks.

She had on khaki cargo pants, skin-tight layers of colorful tank tops, an elastic choker necklace, and platform shoes from dELiA*s.

We share an awkward moment that ends with a quiet laugh—yeah, we still haven’t grown out of that, I tell her.

She sips on her dairy-filled vanilla latte.

I drink my purple ube latte with oat milk.

She’s full of questions about me and worried about herself.

I tell her to listen to her intuition—that powerful inner voice inside her. I tell her not to hide or sacrifice her voice. I tell her she is magic.

I hesitate, unsure how to say what I want to tell her next, but I need her to know. I tell her it’s going to get very dark for her. I tell her that some of the worst things she could ever imagine will happen to her. I see her get scared. I squeeze her hand and look her in the eye. ‘And I am fucking here for you,’ I tell her. ‘Every version of us, every prayer we’ve ever uttered over all our ages, combine with all the saints past and present, and they will support and carry you.’ I tell her it’s okay if she’s scared. It’s okay if she needs to cry right now. She does. I cry, too. We hold each other for a long moment.

I tell her we lose our way from each other sometimes but always find our way back. I thank her for being her and for her big heart and all her hopes and dreams that fuel us.

She tells me that she hopes we get to be an artist and write books. I tell her we do and that I’m working on it for us. Her eyes light up. I tell her we get to live in California like she dreams and that we get to dip our toes in the sand and feel the waves of the cold Pacific wash over our feet. I tell her she’ll get to live in a neighborhood with Redwood Trees and a lemon tree in her backyard. ‘Oh yeah, and you know how you always wanted to cuddle up and fall asleep with a dog?’ I tell her, ‘Yeah, you get to do that, too.’ Her eyes are all sparkles, and our faces glow. I tell her she’s going to have some beautiful, freaking amazing children, and I see her marvel at that.

We exchange smiles, and the joy we share heats up like a fire in our hearts. I tell her we still love rainbows and flash her a peek of my Marine Layer rainbow ribbed socks. She giggles. I tell her we do wondrous, dreamy things, and some of them cost us very much.

I tell her much of her life will feel far from okay—she will feel far from okay at times. But I reassure her that she will be okay. I remind her of her magic. I tell her one more time that she’s going to be okay.

We hug for a long time.

I get in my scratched-up black minivan.

She shuts the door to her shiny red Chevy.

We wave, ‘See ya later,’ knowing we’ll see each other again.

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I write these words and then wonder if next time, 40-year-old me can meet a future version of myself for coffee.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll stop ghosting ourselves. Maybe we’ll learn to love all iterations, ages, and parts of ourselves. Maybe I’ll ask my future self to coffee and see if and when this happens.

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What About You?

If you’ve ever felt hesitant to meet a past version of yourself—if the thought of sitting across from her, looking into her eyes, and speaking honestly feels too big, too tender, too complicated—you’re not alone in this. Maybe you’re still figuring out how to hold all the versions of you with compassion and grace. If this resonates or stirs something in you, feel free to share in the comments or use this as an invitation to just sit with yourself.

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A Writing Invitation

If you feel inspired to do some processing, I invite you to pause, reflect, and write using any of the following prompts:

• Try Jennae’s poem as a prompt if you haven’t and journal about your experience writing it: If I were to meet my younger self for coffee, what would I tell her?

• Where in my life have I ghosted myself—my needs, desires, or dreams?

• What parts of me have I neglected, silenced, or set aside to fit in, be loved, or feel safe?

• When did I first learn to abandon myself? What was I trying to protect?

• What does self-abandonment look like in my daily life? How does it show up in small, unnoticed ways?

• What would it feel like to return to myself—to show up fully as I am?

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Resources

Recommended reads for inner child healing, self-abandonment, and reconnecting with parts of yourself:¹

• The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron

• The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile

• Boundaries for Your Soul by Alison Cook and Kimberly Miller

• The Mountain is You by Brianna Wiest

1. These are just a few titles that I’ve personally read that relate. If you have any suggestions our community might find helpful, please share in the comments.