I would tell her that the things she worries about — the rush, the noise, the need to arrive somewhere — will one day dissolve like sugar in a warm cup.
That the real destinations were always the ones she stumbled upon: a sentence in a book that stopped her cold, a friendship that grew like moss on stone, a morning where the light was so golden she had to put down her pen and just look.
I would pour her a cup of tea — the kind that takes time, that asks you to wait — and tell her: you are not behind. You are not late. You are exactly here, and here is where the living happens.
And then I think she would smile, because somewhere inside her, she already knew.
