She Liked Her Coffee Sweet, I Like Mine Bitter
I saw her today. I didn’t expect to, but there she was. And, of course, I remember her. She had hair much curlier than she does now, in buns that framed the sides of her face, giving her an impish look.
She had wished for a name like Elizabeth, where she could go “Or you can just call me Lizzie” because it just seemed easier somehow. And something about having the letter Z in a name was particularly cool to her.
She read books about space and ancient civilisations, as was common for kids that age who were under-stimulated in school. She wondered about fossil fuels and what people a millennium from now would write about the people who lived along with her. What would they excavate?
She would play by the rules, already old enough to understand the expectations of being caught between two different worlds. But she would feel bitter when she was called a “good little girl”. She couldn’t tell if it was the “good”, the “little”, or the “girl”; it just irked her.
We bonded over our mutual affection for coffee – she liked it milky and sweet, while I liked mine with a dash of milk, just enough to change the colour of the coffee.
She babbled, as it was her nature to be an open book. I was, too, so I got it. I just wish I could tell her she didn’t have to give away so much for people to like her, be friends with her. But, of course, change can only be created from within. Albeit too young for it, she had already experienced the consequences of saying “no” – disappointed parents, upset relatives, threatened friendships.
So, she drifted between groups, people, and social settings, shifting her personality, exaggerating parts of it and downplaying others as per the demands. And she realised if she said “yes”, she was “liked”. She flitted through conversations, noting the similarities underpinning the differences people were so very desperate to cling to. She leaned into those similarities; she became a personality chameleon.
She heard “good little girl” enough times until she realised it meant nothing to her. She thought herself accomplished, she had pleased people, and she recognised people did like her. Yet, she had felt trapped. In the personalities she had created. The likes she had feigned and the dislikes she secretly yearned for. She thought this was what people wanted from her. She thought this was what she wanted. She thought this was what everyone wanted for themselves.
What she couldn’t articulate was that she longed to belong. To feel at home, feel at ease, have a mind at peace. With those around her and herself.
She had ended up torn on choosing the type of woman she should be – a tomboy, maybe? She thought it easier to hide her figure and seem unapproachable so no one would tease her about her size. But she liked (and still likes) the colour lavender, which she found too feminine. She couldn’t imagine embracing a personality sooo… floral and happy. She was naively optimistic, but she also knew life wasn’t kind. It was a delicate dance.
So, dance she did. Clumsily missing the beat as she tried to find the tune she could sync all of her personality to. If only someone had told her she could be whoever she wants to be, to forget society’s boxes and create her own. That it wasn’t about fitting in and being on display; it was about erasing tired narratives to compose a melody for herself, with the rhythm that was pulsing through her veins.
I noticed she used eyeliner on her waterline while I did a conventional wing. A habit she had picked up in Secondary school as an act of rebellion. The sudden whirlwind of differences in socioeconomic status and popularity contests in her new school had been too much. Too demanding. Too shallow. Too flaky. And she was tired of the personality game already. So tired. And to think, or at least, what seemed like this was the life ahead, struck her as unbearable. Too young to be taken seriously and too old to stay silent, she started saying no. She didn’t know “No” was a complete sentence, though, so she overexplained or underplayed situations as she felt best fit. She felt guilty, unaccustomed to this new world where she could dance to her own tune. In fact, she anticipated the rejections. The harassment, the bullying and the patronisation. She had observed people enough as a child to mimic them, after all.
She was called headstrong. Stubborn. Rude. Hot-tempered. Uncompromising. Inflexible. Unopen to new things. She expected that. What she didn’t expect was that at 15, people knew the type of wife she would be when she wasn’t sure if refusing to let her friend copy her homework had made her a bad friend.
But she liked saying “no”. Suddenly, she didn’t have to be someone she didn’t think she was. It became easier and easier until she had built a fortress around herself. Desperate to be loved, scared to be scorned.
She had wanted fireworks and butterflies and romance. I, however, want a love that’s quiet and strong and supportive, built on mutual respect and shared interests. Well, of course, I want fireworks and butterflies too – I am a romantic, after all. But she had been let down by friendships one too many times, so she ached for a knight in shining armour to save her from this misery. A knight she could simply be with. If only she knew she was the empress of her own life. Alas, queens were evil in happily ever afters.
But now she knows, not everyone she has a great conversation with must become her best friend, let alone her friend. Eloquent conversations with strangers, like passing clouds, can be just as meaningful as late-night conversations with loved ones. She no longer craved to be liked, for she realised she didn’t always like the people she was trying to impress. She found, when melodies sync, they can indeed form a beautiful harmony, a jarring contrast from the discordant choirs she knew.
And I have to say, she was right to start saying no when she did. She may not agree, but there is quiet power in her refusal to conform – whether it was refusing clubbing as a rite of passage or standing by the standards she carved out for herself – she chose what felt true personally, professionally, romantically. She was, I was starting to realise, more than enough just as I was.
I saw my younger self today. I told her I love her.
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