I Met My Younger Self For Coffee...

A Viral Tik Tok Trend Meets My Sub Stack Page

Lately I’ve seen the “I Met My Younger Self For Coffee” trend circulating Instagram Reels (because I watch my Tik Toks on Instagram, like the uncool millenial that I am). Particularly, I’ve seen a few late-diagnosed autistic Instagrammers that I follow do their take on this as well. I’m not one to make Tik Toks or Reels, but it struck me as an interesting thought experiment, particularly for those of us late-diagnosed neurodivergents that knew (comparatively speaking) so little about ourselves back then. So here goes my adaptation of this as prose, for Substack…

I met my younger self for coffee… He insists on meeting at Starbucks. I oblige, but assure him that there’s so much better coffee that he hasn’t discovered yet. I shouldn’t be surprised when he orders that grande Frappucino with extra whipped cream and a week’s worth of sugar, but his eyes sure widen in horror when he hears me order a large hot coffee with a double shot of espresso, black. I assure him that our sweet tooth doesn’t go away with age, I just don’t indulge it with my coffee orders anymore. He looks at me to pay for his order, but I tell him since he picked the location I assumed he’d pick up the tab too. I tell him that although I’m not as cash-strapped as he is, my tendency to angle for a free meal or drink hasn’t gone away.

We agree to just pay for our own drinks, and then move to find a place to sit. We instinctively both find a table in a corner, secluded and out of the way. As he sits down, he averts my eyes and stares intently at his cup as he fidgets with the straw. I pretend I don’t notice, because I barely do; I’m not looking him in the eyes either. Some things never change. I take too large of a first swig of my drink and burn my tongue and he supresses a snicker. “I guess we’ll always be a bit impatient,” he says.

I’m relieved he’s finally broken the ice, but he quiets again for a while. I wait, because I know it’s just a matter of time. I know what’s coming next. Suddenly, the questions start to come from him in a steady stream.

“What do you do for a living? Am I happy? Do I have a family? What about us hasn’t changed?”

He stops to take a breath, and then asks one more question hesitantly.

“Do I ever become normal?”

Now it’s my turn to snicker. I have forgotten how inquisitive I was.

I tell him I’m a physics teacher. His eyes light up. It’s refreshing to see that excitement for science in his eyes before he has to monetize it. I tell him that I know science is his favorite subject, and he emphasizes that it always has been.

“And it always will be,” I reassure him.

I warn him that college physics is a beast, but that it’s worth it. I tell him that the inquisitiveness never goes away, and that our love for learning and a good challenge will always be our biggest strength. I can tell that these reassurances are making him more comfortable. I tell him to keep paying attention in school, because he’s going to use all of it. He raises his eyebrows in skepticism.

“ALL of it,” I repeat. “The physics and the math of course. But you’re gonna keep speaking Spanish, just to show off. You’re going to have to remember your musical scales, to help when your kids are practicing their instruments. You’ll want to remember everything you learned in history, just to drop random trivia on people. And you’ll want to remember every crappy book you ever read in English, just so you can complain about them.”

“I really don’t change at all, do I?” he says with a smirk.

“Oh you do,” I assure him. “In ways you can’t even imagine yet.” I tell him that he learns to listen more. And talk a little less. I let him know that he’ll eventually accept that he doesn’t know it all (but that he still won’t let it on to other people). I tell him he becomes more compassionate. He finds his footing. That it’s not easy at first, but we find our niche, and it feels so good.

Then he latches onto something I mentioned in passing earlier.

“You have kids?” he asks. “So you get married?”

I assure him that of course we get married. That he’ll marry a wonderful woman that he hasn’t even met yet. That her and I won’t like the same baseball team, but that it’s not the end of the world because we’re similar and can relate in all the ways that truly matter. That we have four kids and there’s never a dull moment but that’s ok because we like it that way.

Then I tell him that there’s plenty about he and I that hasn’t changed either. Our curiosity and love for science, of course, is still around. That 20 years later and he’ll still be playing The Legend of Zelda.

“They’re still making those??” he exclaims.

I tell him I listen to a lot of the same music, but we’ve picked up some new genres and artists too. I tell him that some of his favorite hobbies, the fishing and hiking and exploring outside, have a way of coming back to him time after time.

Now the tough part’s coming, but I know he’d want to know.

“You’re autistic,” I tell him. He doesn’t know what all that means yet, so I explain to him. I can see him putting the pieces together in his head. He tells me he doesn’t feel like he fits in. He tells me that when he’s around others, everything just feels harder for him. That everyone seems to be following unspoken rules that he doesn’t know about. I pat him on the shoulder.

“Those feelings will come and go,” I say. “But you get better at knowing how to handle them. You’ll embrace your strengths, and find friends just as weird as you are, and you find your place.”

“You’re being cliche,” he tells me.

“Well c’mon,” I tell him, “We don’t have 20 years to go through EVERYTHING. But it’s ok. I promise. The good days make it worth it, and the bad days don’t feel quite as bad. By the time you’re me, you’ll have more skills to use, and more happy memories to draw on. But don’t be afraid to be you. You don’t have to keep everyone happy. What other people say about you isn’t your business, and they’re probably wrong anyway.”

“Ok, now you’re REALLY being corny,” he says. “Did you get that line from a Chicken Soup for the Soul book that’s still somehow still getting published in the future?”

“Nah, better yet,” I tell him. “I learned it from my AA sponsor.”

“But I don’t even drink!” he spits through bits of Frappucino. This reveal has been the biggest so far.

“And at 36, you won’t either,” I say with a smirk and a wink.

There’s so much more he wants to know, but I’m running out of time and he’s got enough to go on. I tell him it’s time to wrap up, and he say’s that’s ok.

“I have to read 40 pages of Anna Karenina to read tonight for AP Lit,” he lets our mournfully.

I walk him to the crappy ‘84 Volvo wagon in the parking lot. He hesitates before he gets in the car.

“It gets better,” I tell him. “I promise. You’ll learn to live with yourself. Most days you’ll even like yourself, and the people that matter will like you too. Just keep taking it a day at a time, and enjoy the good moments as they happen.”

As he puts his key in the ignition and I hear Glenn Beck’s voice on the radio, I decide to have some fun, and drop one more bomb on him right as he gets ready to pull away.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m a Democrat now.”