To my high school senior self

This post was inspired by my growing friendship with my little sister Emma, a soon-to-be graduate of Russell High School. The letter, however, is directed at my 17-year-old self, and all the struggles that she is about to face. 

 

Hey you.

Yep, you in the soccer t-shirts and size 6 (no longer size 2, or even 4, as you’re constantly berating yourself for) jeans. You with the chin-length bob that’s hard to put up for soccer, you with the sweaty, neck-tickling, short tendrils that irritate you, and the make-up-less face and the Adidas indoor soccer shoe-covered feet.

You who has spent the last 5-6 months of your life filling out scholarship essays and applications; studying for AP classes and exams; you who has started running recreationally now that soccer is over (which will be both a collegiate blessing and a vice, dear one); you who is so ready to stop being one of the “Ison girls” that you can barely stand it. You who wants an “identity of your own”, who feels the thrum of wanderlust with each heartbeat that quickens from reading another letter from UK that arrives in the mail (freshman orientation, Honors Program, Study Abroad opportunities, and on and on). You who is so anxious to make her mark on the world that she doesn’t consider the less-than-friendly mark that it might make on her, upon stepping out of the sanctuary (because it is, dear one; it’s a sanctuary, not a holding cell; a home, not simply a house; strong roots, not just a place to lay your head) of her (your) parents’ house.

You who will break up with her steady high school boyfriend this summer, who will get her first B this fall, who will find herself seeking shelter and love at her aunt’s house in Lexington when she is overwhelmed by the enormity and anonymity of her new “home” at the University of Kentucky. You who will go from not caring (as much) about what you look like (because let’s be honest, dear one – you’ve struggled with your size since you were 13 or 14; your self-loathing and -love have ebbed and flowed with 10 pounds lost or gained, with boys attracted to you and those not interested, with attempts at food restriction and candy binges) to being absolutely broken by thoughts of not being enough due to your physical “imperfections”. You who will beat herself down, over and over again, over the next year, for not being social enough, or pretty enough, or smart enough, or ______ enough.

Yes, you.

If I could hug you right now, I would. You would push me away, and scoff a bit; you would be taken aback by my forwardness, by my heart, by my physical need to be close to you to comfort you, when you feel as if you have no reason to need comfort. You would probably be jealous of me, dear one; you would see me as a mid-twenties woman, who has managed to stay an “acceptable size”, and you would send up a silent prayer that you won’t have “ballooned up” by my age (your worst fear, though you wouldn’t tell anyone that – how superficial, how vain, how dumb that is to fear, you berate yourself). You would envy my independence, perhaps peek into my car and see my bike, or running shoes, or graduate school books, and think: this girl’s going places. You would be filled with hope, but also nervously struck by the weight of your own expectations.

If I could snap a picture of you right now, and spend a few hours (because I could spend hours, dear one), annotating it and pointing out the physical parts of you that are beautiful, that are strong, that are feminine, that are special, I would. I would draw your attention to your strong legs, your capable arms, your steady feet, your cute, “paw-like” hands, your ski slope nose, your Ison-trademark blue eyes, your petite chest (perfectly sized for running and other sports), your average height; I would celebrate and applaud each and every part of you: all the parts that you think are too large, too cumbersome, too “manly”, too “un-sculpted”. I would tell you stories of what physical feats your legs will do (cycling, hiking, running, skiing…), what your arms will accomplish (weight-lifting, rock climbing, paddling…), what your eyes will see, and whose hands your hands will hold. I would tell you that your legs will be just as useful getting a PR half-marathon time as they are jogging with a friend who needs comfort and company; I would reassure you that hugging a sister is an even better use of your arms than climbing a 5.11. I would smile at you, and tell you, you’re beautiful. You wouldn’t believe it – not now – but I would tell you anyway.

If I could go ahead and give you a B on your transcript, I would (it’ll happen soon anyway, dear one – fall semester of your freshman year, in fact, and you don’t need to shed near as many – or any – tears over it as you will). If I could convince you that that guy you meet the summer before freshman year is, indeed, a good man, but has a lot of growing up to do and finding himself – just like you, dear one…I would. If I could save you the nights of lying awake in your dorm room, kept up by the light of your roommate’s computer, and lamenting your “not-good-enough-edness”, I would. If I could save you the hurt, and pain, and loneliness, I would.

Perhaps this is why I can’t, dear one – no, just hear me out. I know this has been a less-than-uplifting epistle, and you’d rather not hear about all the tough times to come. But, perhaps you aren’t to be rescued from these events by an older, semi-wiser version of yourself. And I’ll tell you why  – I believe – you will have to muddle through these, why you will feel mired in the muck of life, instead of soaring above it, as you think you’re destined to be.

Maybe you’re meant for more; no, I don’t mean becoming the first female president, or graduating college with a 4.0, or landing a stellar job in your early twenties. I don’t mean maintaining the “ideal” weight, or growing into a C-cup (seriously, Lauren? you come from a family of small-chested women – embrace it), or doing tricep dips until your arms are chiseled enough for you to model tanktops and spaghetti straps. No, I mean more more. I mean walking in the muck with others; I mean holding the hand of a friend and providing a supportive shoulder; I mean sharing your stories of “failure” and imperfection and fear and singleness. I mean relating to women of faith, and women “without faith”, as you might think of them now. I mean walking beside women in general, and loving everyone, and not drawing a line between those who attend church and those who don’t. I mean seeing God’s beautiful image in everyone, whether they see it in themselves or not, or whether they even believe in Him. I mean talking about yourself less, and listening to others more. I mean, just….more. Not a flashy kind of more, not a sparkling one, or a worldly beautiful one, or a more that’s anything remarkably noticeable, even. But it’s a more that’s necessary, and a “more” position that has been created and crafted just for you.

Maybe, as you stand there in your size 6 jeans and your old soccer t-shirt, as you walk the hallways of your high school in your Adidas indoor soccer shoes, as you nod to the girls you think are prettier than you, as you long to be out of this phase of life and long to be into the next, you’re not ready for what’s to come. But you were made for this journey, dear one – you were specifically formed, and created for it. So stand up straight, push back your shoulders (even though, in all honesty, you’ll keep that semi-hunched, backpack-lugging, academic stoop into your mid-twenties – take it from one who knows 😉 ), and stride purposefully into your future, knowing that you’ve been made – and, ultimately, destined – for more.

Much – unimaginably much – love,

Lauren 🙂