Dear Teenage Me,
It’s hard to write this letter to you, knowing there’s a big chance that you won’t listen to someone older, not even yourself. You think you know best, but it’s the experience that you need to go through, to come out the other side and realise that stuff aint so bad.
You are not fat, never have been. So if you can stop covering up your stomach with your arms crossed tight, because there is nothing there for you to even worry about. The rolls you moan about are skin. Heck, you don’t even know what cellulite is yet. And the more that you compare yourself to others, the more faults you will find.
You are not ugly. You’re a gorgeous young thing that can rock some seriously cool short hair, even if a boy did compare you to Annie Lennox. The only make-up you need is a smile (thank gawd you didn’t really discover that until later).
You are awesome. Love yourself for who you are, because there is no-one quite like you… me. Why would you want to be somebody else if you’re perfectly good at being yourself?
Like every season of life, this time has some radically awesome bits. The freedom while thinking you’re on lockdown, being broke but you didn’t really need any money, the innocent fun that provides me with some great memories that you thought weren’t good enough at the time, the major issues back then that wouldn’t even get a look in now, the belly button you decided to pierce yourself that is really a glorified battle scar… oh dear.
Looking back there were lessons learned and looking forward, it seems that I could readdress this letter back to where it came from. I hope you’re listening!
Lots of love from older, wiser me.
Ps. 31 is not that old.
Pps. You’re awesome. Seriously.