I saw her today.
She was sitting alone at the bar table of my favourite little coffee shop, staring out the window, her hands wrapped around a mug like she had nowhere else to be.
I knew her immediately.
That was me—before.
Before the doctor’s call.
Before the words that split my life in two.
Before I learned how easily everything can fall apart.
She looked so… soft.
Her eyes were lighter then, her face unmarked by the weight I now carry. There was a looseness in her shoulders, an ease in the way she smiled at the barista.
I couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something gut-wrenching about it—watching her live inside a world that still felt safe.
She has no idea.
She doesn’t know that the life she’s so carefully building will soon be knocked out from under her.
She doesn’t know about the long nights ahead, or the way her body will change, inside and out.
She doesn’t know she’ll grieve herself, over and over.
And yet, as I watch her, I also see something else—something she can’t see yet.
I see the way she’ll rise.
I see how she’ll grow softer and stronger all at once.
I see the laughter that will return, not because life is easy, but because she’ll learn how to find it even in the cracks.
I see her collecting small joys like seashells—cups of tea, warm blankets, unexpected friendships, the way sunlight spills through a window on the hardest days.
She doesn’t know it yet, but even in the darkness, there will be beauty.
She’ll carry both—grief and gratitude—together.
She finishes her coffee, still blissfully unaware. Still untouched by all the words and moments that will change her.
I let her go.
But I carry her with me, tucked somewhere deep inside—this tender, unknowing version of me.
And maybe that’s the hardest and most beautiful thing of all.
