Recently, I came along a piece I wrote about a year or two ago. 🙂
You are twelve years old. You have all the reason to be awkward and shy and unsure of yourself. Puberty hits everyone, but it sure as hell doesn’t make it less difficult. You turn your phone on and swipe up to check your face in the camera. Nope, that gigantic pimple on your nose is still there. It feels like the end of the world because your stomach is cramping from having your period, your face is spotted with zits, and you just want to crawl into a hole because you can’t post a good selfie this week. God damn it, pimples! Terrible, just terrible.
Your friends start posting pictures of themselves, whether it be of their duck faces and perfect eyebrows or of meeting their favorite celebrities in concerts. Here you are stuck at home because you don’t have the luxury of that. You go on YouTube and have your own private concert in the comfort of your room.
You are fifteen years old. You have all the reason to be stressed out and pressured and unsure of yourself. College seems so big, too big in fact, for a girl like you. It’s the acceptance of maturity, you think. And you’re pretty sure you aren’t ready for it yet. Not yet, at least. But you have to take the entrance exams. You review for them over the summer, making sure you don’t miss a single session because you HAVE to pass the entrance exams. You are fifteen years old and everyone expects you to pass every single one of them. No pressure. None at all.
You’ve taken every single entrance test you could possibly take, and you are just praying for the best. Everyone says you’ll pass the top schools. You’re supposed to be smart. You log into your social media accounts and see that other people are unbelievably confident. It was soooo easy. That was a piece of cake. Can’t wait to tour my dream schools. They are so sure of themselves. And here you are, worried that you wouldn’t pass a single one.
The results are out, and the excruciating pain of waiting is over. They were wrong when they said she’d pass everything. She didn’t get into the school she wanted, but she still celebrates for passing her second and third choices. Then she goes online on Twitter and checks her feed. Little by little, her happiness begins to fade when she sees so many people tweeting about passing the entrance tests of their dream schools and how surprisingly easy it was. She was happy for them. She has to be. Isn’t that the right thing to feel? She was happy for them.
You are sixteen. It’s your birthday. All your friends are having their own sweet sixteen birthday celebrations. You, on the other hand, are not. You scroll through your Instagram feed and admire the beautiful and expensive gowns they wear, and you wonder why you weren’t invited. You look into your closet, and take out your favorite white denim dress. That is your gown for the day. You go out and eat at your favorite lunch place. That was your party. You feel blessed. You are blessed. But you decide your pictures at the restaurant aren’t Instagram-worthy.
You are seventeen. You have all the reason to be confused and tired and unsure of yourself. You are barely passing in school, but you swear you are trying your best. The pimple marks on your face are now permanent scars. Your five foot tall height has determined that you will not be as sexy or as tall or as perfect as the models you adore. You weigh more than 120 pounds and to you, that’s not thin enough. You feel bad about yourself, but you stop. Ew, self-pity. What a loser.