I meet my younger self for coffee today.
She is insufferable, of course.
So am I.
She has a teenage recklessness, which is fitting, because she is still a teenager - the sparkle in her eye is still naive, overconfident, so sure of the world while knowing nothing of it.
She meets my gaze, and her eyebrows rise at the cynicism in my eyes, the bitterness of the years between us, the fire that has muted into a more flickering ember, the hardened coal that pulses with banked fury instead of roaring freely.
Neither of us knows how to do small talk, still. She sees the ring on my left hand, and her eyebrows rise even higher. "A wedding ring? Imitating the kuffar?"
I laugh because I don't even disagree with her.
She leans forward eagerly. "So, did we do it? Study Arabic overseas? Become a student of knowledge? Am I a shaykha now?"
I don't want to tell her the truth; I want her to hold onto hope. I hesitate.
She can tell something is wrong.
"You do some Islamic diploma programs," I tell her, and see her bristle. It’s not the same thing, and we both know it.
“Your qadr leads to other paths,” I say finally. “You’d be a terrible shaykha, anyway. You’re obnoxious and self-righteous and you don’t know how awful life can be for so many people and you wouldn’t be able to serve women as they need.”
She scowls. I ignore her. She needs to hear it. She doesn’t know that my harshness is actually a kindness, that I’m hiding the crucible of pain she will go through, how the self that emerges after will be both better and worse than who she is now.
I relent, a little.
“You’ll be a writer. You’re not half bad at it. You’re also not a terrible parent.”
Fear flashes in her eyes. Oops.
“Just one kid! And she’s amazing. She’s sweet, and kind, and funny, and when you look at her, your heart will ache in the best way.”
I cast about for something else to tell her, something that doesn’t hint at the horrors scattered in her future, that doesn’t weigh her down with preemptive shame about her own terrible life choices, that doesn’t break her before she will be broken in the years to come, over and over again.
“You will have SO MANY BOOKS. People will send you their books FOR FREE. You get to read ALL THE TIME. Your house will be so full of books that your bookshelves will start sagging in the middle and you’ll have piles in every room and you’ll never run out of fun things to read. You’ll run a book club!”
This catches her attention.
“You’ll get to travel and visit Muslim countries. You’ll walk through ancient souqs and even more ancient jungles. You’ll lean out the window and the desert wind will murmur the adhan to you, and you’ll get caught in a monsoon storm, and you’ll pray inside masajid built by women centuries ago.”
Her eyes are dreamy now, bright in a way that I miss so much, that makes a sob catch in my throat.
She will have all those things, but at a price she cannot begin to fathom.
There’s so much I want to tell her, but I can’t. There is a path laid out for her, through shadows and thorns, and she will cut herself on every jagged edge, because she must. I cannot change her qadr.
“Hey… one more thing?”
She turns back to look at me.
“Hug your mom more.”