dear sixteen-year old me, it gets bigger

if i could sit across from my high-school self now, i don't think i would tell her to be more confident.

that feels too simple.

i don't think i would tell her that none of it matters, either. because when you're sixteen, it does matter... and it can feel fucking heavy.

the friend group you're standing with at lunch matters. the boy who doesn't like you back matters. the girls who make you feel incredibly small matter. walking into a room and immediately wondering where you're supposed to stand matters.

at least, it feels like it does in that moment.

and that feeling is very real.

i think i'd tell her:

be yourself. you're damned if you do and damned if you don't anyway. try to live authentically. you'll attract your people eventually. and most importantly, you are not what happened to you.

because here's the thing i didn't understand then:

most of them were trying to figure it out too.

most of us were walking around wondering if we were pretty enough, cool enough, funny enough, interesting enough, desperately trying to act like we weren't wondering any of those things at all.

i spent so much of high school feeling like there was some social rulebook everyone else had been handed and i somehow missed orientation.

growing up in a predominantly mormon and wealthy city felt completely foreign and unwelcoming to me. i never quite understood where i was supposed to fit.

be funny, but not too weird.

be pretty, but don't act like you know you're pretty.

be confident, but not intimidating.

be friends with these people.

don't talk to those people.

don't care too much.

definitely don't let anyone know when you care too much.

and god forbid you ever let someone know they hurt your feelings.

so you learn how to read rooms.

you learn how to adjust yourself.

you learn to wonder whether someone is mad at you because they answered differently than usual.

you learn to replay conversations in your head on the drive home.

you learn to ask yourself, was that weird? did i say something wrong? do they actually like me?

i wish i could tell her how exhausting that becomes.

and how eventually, you get tired.

not in a sad way.

in a freeing way.

you just… run out of energy for performing. it’s exhausting pretending to be someone you’re not.

you start realizing that being liked by everyone is actually a terrible goal, because the version of you that could accomplish that probably wouldn't be very interesting.

but really... how incredibly fucking boring would it be if we were all carbon copies of each other?

BARF.

some people will misunderstand you.

some people will decide who you are without ever really knowing you.

let them.

some people you desperately wanted approval from will become people you wouldn't even choose to have coffee with now.

that one takes a minute to process. haha

and strangely enough, that realization won't make you bitter.

it will make you free.

i would tell my high-school self that she isn't going to find one perfect group of people and suddenly feel like she has "made it."

there isn't going to be some magical table where she finally sits down and thinks, ah. here it is. these are my people. now i never have to feel insecure again.

life doesn't really work that way.

you're going to move through different friendships.

you're going to outgrow people.

people are going to outgrow you.

some relationships are going to end quietly. others will end badly. a few will surprise you and last far longer than you ever expected.

and you are going to learn that belonging isn't always about finding the right group.

sometimes it's about becoming comfortable enough with yourself and finding that deep self-love you so desperately craved, that you no longer need the group to tell you who you are.

i would also tell her that the boys she cried over are almost comical in hindsight.

like, quite literally.

respectfully.

actually, maybe not respectfully. (;

there were so many moments when i measured my worth by whether someone wanted me.

too many times i gave pieces of myself away too easily because being wanted felt a lot like being worthy.

whether i was pretty enough.

interesting enough.

thin enough.

cool enough.

easygoing enough.

enough.

i wish i could somehow put my hands on her shoulders and make her understand that there is going to come a point where she looks at her life and realizes:

oh.

i was never supposed to convince people to choose me.

that one takes a while.

i'd tell her that the things she thinks make her "too much" are probably going to become some of her favorite things about herself.

you're weird.

stay weird.

you're curious.

stay curious.

you're emotional.

fine.

you care deeply.

fine.

you overthink everything.

we're still working on that one.

you're going to become fascinated by things people might roll their eyes at.

you're going to change your mind a hundred times.

you're going to reinvent yourself.

constant deaths and rebirths.

(maybe that's your scorpio rising.)

you're going to travel places teenage you can't picture yet. you're going to build a life that would probably feel completely foreign to her.

and you're still not going to have everything figured out.

sorry.

thirty-something doesn't come with the rulebook either.

but you will know yourself better.

you will stop abandoning yourself quite so quickly just because someone else doesn't understand you.

you will become more comfortable saying no.

you will realize that being invited isn't the same thing as being valued.

you will learn that friendship isn't supposed to feel like constantly auditioning for your spot.

you will understand that chemistry isn't the same as love.

you will realize that sometimes your intuition was right.

and sometimes you were just extremely fucking terrified.

learning the difference will take years.

there are still moments when you'll run into someone from that time and suddenly feel sixteen again.

anxious.

unsure.

that's the strangest part.

you can build an entire life, become a completely different person, and then see someone in the grocery store and, for half a second, your nervous system is apparently like:

welcome back to high school.

cool.

thanks.

but now there is something else there too.

perspective.

because you get to walk away from that interaction and return to a life you actually chose.

and maybe that's what i would want her to know most.

your life gets bigger.

so much bigger.

high school feels like the entire universe when you're standing inside of it.

but eventually, it becomes something that happened fifteen years ago.

a handful of stories.

some people you still know.

some names you barely remember.

many painful memories.

some really good ones.

and a younger version of yourself you finally learn to have some compassion for.

i don't think i would tell her to change anything.

even the embarrassing parts.

even the friendships i wish had gone differently.

even the people i wish i'd never cared so much about.

because every version of me was trying to figure it out with the information she had at the time.

i think i'd just sit next to her and say:

you don't have to work this hard to be understood.

you don't have to shrink yourself to make people comfortable.

you don't have to chase people who make you question whether they want you around.

you are not what happened to you.

and you definitely don't have to figure out who you're going to be yet.

you're allowed to become her slowly.

actually, you never really finish becoming her.

that's the good part.

xoxo,

s